Tartaglia ordered Steele’s coke and brought it over with his whisky to where she was sitting, tucked away in a far corner of the room. He sat down and reported what Melinda Knight had just said to him.
When he finished, she sighed. ‘God, that’s all we need – although with the press briefing tomorrow first thing, she’s only a few hours ahead of the rest of them. I’ll see if I can get someone to lean on her editor and find out exactly how much she knows. We may have to persuade them to hold back some of the details. You think she may be onto something with this third fire theory?’
‘I don’t know. I really couldn’t tell if she actually knew something and wanted to know if we were on the same track, or if she was just trying to find out if we had anything. Obviously, we searched for anything similar after the Sainsbury’s fire, but post today’s events, maybe we should look again at the search criteria and also widen the area. I’ll get Justin onto it tomorrow. What’s the news from Hendon?’
‘The usual horse-trading. Discussions are still going on and I’ve got to go back to the office for a conference call in half an hour. But last I heard we’re likely to run the two investigations in tandem, with Alan Marshall taking an overall supervisory role.’
‘That sounds good,’ Tartaglia said, relieved that for the time being he could concentrate on the London end and let Ramsey and his team get on with their part of the investigation. Marshall was Steele’s direct superior and a man known for cutting through red tape and bureaucracy. With him in overall charge, it would make for clearer reporting lines, with the ultimate decision-making kept in London, just in case of a problem. It was by far the best option. He quickly outlined what Ramsey had just told him.
‘I also spoke to Chapman earlier,’ he added. ‘He confirmed that Finnigan definitely had a thing about Russian women and that he had apparently talked quite freely about getting a Russian bride off the Internet when he got out. According to Chapman, some bloke Finnigan had met in jail had done just that, although the woman had then taken him to the cleaners and run off with somebody else while he was inside.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘So it was widely known.’
‘Yes, although Chapman said he thought it was all a bit of a joke, that Finnigan was just trying to big himself up. He didn’t think Finnigan would actually do anything about it.’
‘But he didn’t have to, did he? Somebody else fixed it all up for him, made it nice and easy, handed it to him on a plate. Somebody who knew exactly what appealed to his fantasies.’
Tartaglia took a mouthful of whisky and nodded agreement.
‘Whoever’s doing this is certainly clever,’ Steele said. ‘He knows how to pull people’s strings, yet he had to use Tatyana to get to Finnigan. He couldn’t do it himself, for some reason.’
‘Finnigan was six-foot-four and a real bruiser. Maybe he didn’t fancy getting too close.
It may be as simple as that,’ Tartaglia replied. ‘Although why go to so much trouble? Perhaps he enjoyed the game as much as the killing. Whatever it is, he’s known to Finnigan in some capacity and is somebody Finnigan wouldn’t normally trust, otherwise he could have lured the man to his death himself. Sharon’s following up on Finnigan, starting with his contacts in jail. Given the sort of man he was, he must have had quite a few enemies.’
‘But surely they’d be more likely to slit his throat in a dark alley than do something so subtle and convoluted?’ asked Steele.
‘Maybe. We need to find somebody who had the motive, the nous and the patience to see it through. Somebody must really have hated him.’
‘What about John Smart?’
‘No connection so far between him and Finnigan and no sign he was lured anywhere. The Missing Person investigation looked at his phone and email records and there was nothing to suggest any form of a meeting. He just goes out one morning on his bicycle, to the shops or his allotment, or whatever, and disappears off the face of the earth. Like Richard English. If English is behind all of this, why bother to plant his wallet at the scene of the fire? So far, there’s nothing to link any of the other victims to him. He could have stayed quietly out of the picture and nobody would ever have thought of him.’
‘Perhaps it’s a double bluff and that’s what he wants us to think,’ Steele offered.
That seemed implausible to Tartaglia, but he’d long ago learned that it was a mistake to look at things too logically where murder was concerned. ‘As of this evening, we’ve got access to his accounts, both business and private. A forensic accountant will be starting in the morning.’ He finished his whisky. Pub measures, even doubles, didn’t go far. ‘It still doesn’t make sense to me,’ he said, after a moment.
‘You mean Richard English being alive?’
‘Yes. I’m trying to see a pattern in all of this, but so far I can’t find one. Richard English disappeared two years ago and is never heard of again until his wallet turns up at the scene of the first fire. A year later, John Smart disappears. Part of his body turns up in said fire. As for the other victims, there’s Jake Finnigan, who went missing six months ago, plus an elderly woman and a youngish man, both so far unidentified. The lab confirmed that the body parts from the Sainsbury’s fire had been frozen, so whoever’s doing this is collecting them for a purpose.’
‘Finnigan was in jail two years ago and only got out a few weeks before he went missing, so maybe that’s why he wasn’t killed earlier.’
‘Yes, but was this planned from the beginning, or did the killer improvise as he went along?’
They were silent for a few moments, pondering the situation, then Steele asked, ‘What about the tramp who used to hang around Sainsbury’s?’
‘We’ve tried all the usual places, but no sign of him. The timing of his disappearance is odd. I spoke to the manager of Sainsbury’s, who told me the man had been kipping down outside the bakery most nights for about a month once the weather turned cold. Then, around the time of the fire, he disappears.’
‘He could be Richard English . . .’
‘Yes, or possibly the killer, or maybe they’re one and the same. But if so, why bother to hang around Sainsbury’s, in character as it were, for a whole month. It’s one of many things that don’t add up.’
Donovan emerged from Hammersmith Tube station into the fresh night air and started to walk along Shepherd’s Bush Road. She had gone to meet Sally, a close friend of Claire’s, for a drink and had ended up having supper at her flat. It had been difficult talking about Claire and she had learned nothing of any interest in terms of the investigation. Sally had been as kind and considerate as anybody could be, but it was all a bit awkward. The last thing Donovan wanted was her pity, but there was worse to come. Sally’s flatmate had come home towards the end of the evening. It was clear from her reaction on entering the flat that she had assumed Donovan had already gone, her cheery ‘Hello, I’m back’ cut short on seeing her. Mouth still half open, she stared at Donovan, then quickly looked away, muttered an embarrassed ‘sorry’ and rushed out of the room. Not everybody was so socially inept, but Donovan had seen what had happened to the families of murder victims, and now Claire’s murder had marked her out too. The tragedy hung over her like an invisible cloud. Going forward, for heaven knew how long, she could expect hushed tones, averted eyes and the pity of strangers, along with the inevitable, prurient curiosity. She was no longer plain Sam Donovan. She was the woman whose sister had been killed. The one in the papers. At that new hotel. With it came a bizarre and distasteful form of celebrity. But short of changing her name and moving to a new town, what could she do?
Shepherd’s Bush Road was still relatively busy, cars and the odd bus spraying freezing muddy water onto the pavement and anybody walking along it. She decided to cut through the backstreets to Tartaglia’s flat and turned off the main road into Brook Green. It was a relatively peaceful residential area of low-built late Victorian houses. She had been to Tartaglia’s flat more times than she could count and had often walked back afterwards to her house near the river. It was strange to be going the other way. Her rubber-soled boots made no noise as she walked and all she could hear was water dripping from the trees and the buzz of traffic from the main road. She turned the corner into Tartaglia’s street and was about to cross the road when she caught a slight movement just ahead of her. She stopped. A man was standing in the shadows under a tree. He appeared to be looking at his watch; the swing of his arm was what had caught her eye. He looked back at Tartaglia’s house opposite and, as though he sensed her presence, glanced around towards her. She caught the pale flicker of a face under his dark hoodie. All she could tell was that he was tall. He turned and walked quickly away, his feet making no sound. There was something not right about his reaction and she decided to follow him. It was difficult to keep track of him in the low light. He turned into a street on the right and a moment later she rounded the corner, running now, but there was no sign of him. She heard a car start up further along and the roar of the accelerator as it sped down the road, too far away to make out either the make or model of car or the licence number. It turned into Shepherd’s Bush Road and was gone.
Tartaglia walked up the path to his front door and let himself in. He collected the few bits of post from the hall table and went into his flat. The lights were on, and Sam Donovan sat on the sofa facing him, arms folded, a cup of something in front of her on the table. He could tell from her expression that something was wrong.
‘There was somebody outside, Mark. About half an hour ago, when I came home. I’m sure he was watching this house.’
‘Outside? Where?’
‘In the street. I came around the corner and I saw him. He was standing under the tree opposite, looking up at this house.’
‘I’ll go and take a look.’
‘No point. He’s gone now.’
‘You’re sure it was this house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask him what he was doing?’
‘No. The minute he saw me, he disappeared off. It was all I could do to keep up. Then he drove away in a car. He’d left it parked several streets away, which is pretty odd, unless he was trying to cover his tracks.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall, Caucasian. Dark clothing and a hoodie. That’s as much as I could tell.’
He unzipped his jacket and sank down on the sofa opposite. ‘I’m pretty sure it was a journalist.’ A look of horror crossed her face. ‘Nothing to do with Claire, don’t worry. Melinda Knight was hanging around my office when I left. She probably sent somebody to watch my home too, which explains something she said. The case I’m on is about to break big-time and she’s ahead of the pack. I don’t know how she found out, but there’s a link between our case and one that’s just happened down near Winchester. I was there this morning and either somebody spotted me, or more likely there’s been a leak. I’m afraid it means no peace for a while.’
‘Oh . . . OK.’
She looked a little relieved, he thought, although he was surprised she didn’t instantly ask him about the case. He wondered if he should tell her about it. Maybe it would be good to involve her, keep her mind off things to do with Claire. When they worked together, she had always had something interesting to say or a new and unexpected angle. As he thought about sharing things with her, it suddenly dawned on him how much he missed her company and her companionship. ‘Do you want to hear about it? It might interest you. It will be all over the papers tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll head off to bed, then,’ she said, getting to her feet, her face blank, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Is there any news? About Claire, I mean?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ve just had a drink and a quick bite to eat with Steele. I asked her about progress but there’s nothing new to report, no breakthrough yet on the horizon.’
She gave him a hard look. ‘The trail is cold, you mean.’
‘Sam, you know what it’s like. Unless you get a break in the first twenty-four hours, it’s usually a long, hard slog. We’re doing our best, I can assure you.’
She said nothing. Her face was white and pinched-looking and she had a glazed look in her eyes. Maybe she was just tired. She turned away and walked out of the sitting room. A moment later, he heard the bedroom door close behind her.