Back in his flat, Tartaglia sat down on the sofa and opened the two manila folders Melinda had given him. The first contained a series of papers relating to a fire in a squat in Peckham, South London, which had claimed the life of one of the occupants two years before. It had started sometime in the late evening in the back basement of the property, in a room normally occupied by a young man known as Spike. The forensic investigation concluded that the likely cause of the fire was a kerosene stove used to heat the room, which had somehow fallen or been knocked over. Localised traces of the kerosene had been found as well as the remains of a stove. Neighbours also mentioned hearing a couple of small explosions, and by the time the fire brigade arrived, the heat was too intense for anyone to enter the building. Remains of a large copper still and LPG bottles were found in the basement wreckage. Three people were treated in hospital for burns and the effects of smoke inhalation, one with a broken leg after jumping from an upstairs window. They said that as far as they knew, they were the only people inside the building at the time, but when the site was examined over the next couple of days, the remains of an adult male were found in the basement.
The man was lying on his back on what was left of a mattress. It was first assumed that it was Spike who had died. The body was too badly burnt to be identified in the normal way, but according to the post mortem examination report, the body belonged to a middle-aged man. According to one of the other squatters, Spike was in his late twenties or early thirties. Two of the three squatters who had been treated in hospital had been interviewed; neither knew who the dead man was and said they had never seen anybody other than Spike going down to the basement. They said that Spike kept himself to himself and didn’t appear to have had visitors. A copy of the coroner’s report recorded death by misadventure. What seemed to have sparked Melinda’s interest was the fact that the identity of the dead man was unknown and nobody had been able to locate, let alone interview, Spike after the fire. It certainly didn’t fit into the usual domestic fire scenario, and she had written and underlined the words ‘foul play’ in red, along with a large question mark. What caught Tartaglia’s attention was that the long list of items retrieved from the basement included the remains of a small leather suitcase containing assorted male clothing. It had been found outside in the corridor, next to the front door. There was no description of the bag and there had clearly been no identifiable name tag or address, which might have helped to identify the unknown victim. He made a note to get somebody to find out more details as soon as possible.
One of Melinda’s assistants had been to the site but it had been boarded up and any previous occupants were long gone. Photos of the house were attached to the file, as well as photos of the street. The houses on either side had suffered smoke damage and been cleared for reasons of safety, their inhabitants relocated elsewhere. But the reporter had managed to interview two women who lived on the opposite side of the street. Both had given witness statements at the inquest. Barbara Tier was seventy-two, according to the cub reporter’s notes. Mrs Tier, as she apparently liked to be called, remembered the squatters and the fire very clearly. She said that she had been watching television when she had smelled smoke, but didn’t know where it was coming from. She then heard a loud explosion, or possibly two explosions, and went to her front window to take a look. She saw smoke and flames coming from the house opposite. It was mayhem in the street, people screaming and somebody trying to get out of one of the second-floor windows. She thought that they jumped. She was about to dial 999 when she heard the sirens and, moments later, the fire brigade arrived.
Mrs Tier said that there were about ten people or so living in the house at any one time, although they kept odd hours and it wasn’t always the same crew. They called themselves anarchists and eco-warriors; ‘a load of alkies and druggies, more like,’ she was quoted as saying, along with ‘load of bloody scroungers’. She said that they had left rubbish lying around in the front garden and that it had attracted rats. She said that she was happy when the house had burned down, although she was sorry that somebody had lost their life She didn’t remember seeing a middle-aged man in the group, but there were various people coming and going at the house at all times of the day and night and it was difficult to keep track. She remembered Spike and said that he seemed a bit more together than the rest of them and that he was actually polite. He had helped her bring in her shopping a few times. The description she gave of him was ‘tall, and skinny as a broom handle, with straggly brown hair in a pony tail’. He probably didn’t get enough to eat, she added. She said he usually had a roll-up in his mouth, or cigarette papers in his hands, and that he wore dark glasses all the time. She never saw his eye colour.
Leonora Mitchell, a Filipina aged forty-seven, lived two doors along. ‘Likes to be called Leonie’ the note said. Leonie described the squatters as a mixed bunch, some nice, some not so nice. She was an ex-nurse and said that she thought a couple of them might have had mental or alcohol-related problems. One of her sons had made friends with a squatter called Jack, who lived on the first floor and had a dog. He had moved down to London from Birmingham and had taken somebody else’s place in the squat when they left. Her son had been inside the house a few times with Jack and said that the place was a bit of a tip and that everybody had heavy-duty locks on their rooms, supposedly for security, although she didn’t know what they had that was worth taking. She knew who Spike was but hadn’t spoken to him. She said that she’d seen him on several occasions with a young woman, although she wasn’t sure if she was his girlfriend. She didn’t remember a middle-aged man at the address, but said that he may not have been staying there long enough for her to notice him. The description she gave of Spike was similar to that given by Barbara Tier. She, too, said that he was always wearing dark glasses. Her description of the fire itself tallied almost exactly with Mrs Tier’s, although Leonie had gone out into the street to see if there was anything she could do. She had seen Jack and his dog standing outside with a group of people watching the blaze. She asked him if there was anybody still inside but he had said that he didn’t think so, unless they were on the upper floors. He said that he thought Spike had gone away for a couple of days and that the two people who lived on the ground floor, at the back, were also out in the street.
The second folder contained papers relating to a body discovered in June of the previous year on a beach on the south coast, near the Isle of Wight. It looked as though the body had been set alight on some sort of makeshift funeral pyre, and flowers and petals were found scattered around it on the sand. Clippings from the local paper speculated about it being some sort of New Age funeral, or possibly having a Hindu or Sikh connection, and a local Hindu campaigner for legalising open-air cremations in the UK was interviewed. But there were no witnesses to say what had happened. The fire had taken place at the time of the Isle of Wight music festival, on a stretch of beach often used for parties by students from nearby Southampton University. The weather was good and although the fire had been noticed by a number of people, nobody had paid much attention to it. Somebody remembered hearing loud music coming from the vicinity and the pilot of a helicopter, ferrying festival-goers across the Solent, said that he had seen a man standing by a fire on the beach, poking it with a stick.
Early the following morning, a man walking his dog along the beach had found the body. Examination of the partially burnt remains showed that the body had been laid out on its back, hands folded on its chest. The pyre had been constructed from a mixture of logs and kindling, both on sale even in June at local petrol stations. No traces of accelerant had been found at the scene. Appeals in the local media produced nothing. The post-mortem examination revealed that the body belonged to a young woman and that it was impossible to tell exactly how she had died, although no signs of foul play had been found.
Tartaglia lit a cigarette, deciding that both reports warranted further investigation. He would concentrate on the first case and pass on the second to Ramsey to follow up in the morning.
He was just putting the papers back in their respective folders when he heard the front door of the house slam shut. A moment later, the key turned in the lock of his own door, and Donovan walked into the room. He was surprised to see her. The bedroom door was closed and he had assumed she was asleep inside. He wondered where she had been and if Chang had managed to follow her.
‘I need to talk to you, Mark,’ she said breathlessly, before he had a chance to say anything. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and her short blonde hair stood in spikes. There was an almost feverish brightness in her eyes, which was new.
‘Are you OK?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘Come and sit down. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I’ve had two margaritas. It’s enough, otherwise I won’t be able to think straight. I need to talk to you about Claire.’
She pulled off her jacket, threw it over a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘I bumped into Justin – it doesn’t matter where – and I managed to persuade him to tell me some things about what happened, things that nobody else had the guts to tell me.’
‘It’s not a question of guts, Sam.’
‘Yes it is, but I’m not going to argue. Look, before we talk, I want to make sure you won’t give him a hard time about it, OK?’
He gazed at her for a moment, wondering what exactly had gone on between her and Chang and how she had managed to persuade him to talk, if indeed she had. He would decide what to do once he found out what exactly Chang had said, but there was no point arguing about it now with her. ‘OK. Go on.’
‘I now know the details of what happened that night. I know about the champagne, the room service food, the Latin words that were written on her legs. I want you to talk to me about it, tell me what you really think.’
‘This really isn’t a good idea,’ he said, shocked and angry that Chang had told her so much, although she could be incredibly persistent when she wanted something and he would have been putty in her hands.
‘He’s told me everything, Mark. Everything.’ She looked at him meaningfully. ‘I need to know what you think. I value your opinion more than anyone’s. Let’s just pretend for a moment that we’re still working together and this is just a normal case we’re sitting here discussing. Like old times.’
He hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. They had sat in that room on so many occasions late into the night, talking about this case or that, bantering through all the possible scenarios until sometimes there was a glimmer of light. They knew each other so well he never needed to explain things in detail, she just understood, and vice versa. It was that easy shorthand he missed, along with her intelligence and sensitivity.
‘Forget that it’s Claire for a minute,’ she said, her eyes locked on his. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. Just think of it as a case and tell me what’s in your head.’
He stretched back in his seat, pressing his head back into the cushions, arms reaching behind him and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what to do. He felt suddenly tired, as well as strangely touched that it still mattered to Donovan what he thought, that she hadn’t got what she needed from Chang, or anybody else, and that she wanted to talk to him. Was he stupid to care? More importantly, could she cope with it?
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands. ‘I can deal with it, I promise,’ she said, as though reading his thoughts. ‘Like old times, Mark. Just you and me.’
He rubbed his face wearily and gazed at her. Like Chang, he realised he had no choice but to give in to her. ‘What is it you want to know?
‘Just tell me what you really think went on.’
He took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’m not running the case any more, so I don’t know all the details. But from what I saw, and what I’ve heard since, this is what I think happened. Claire meets this man accidentally outside her office—’
‘Accidentally?’
‘There’s nothing to suggest otherwise. She certainly thought it was accidental, based on things she said. Claire was smart. If it had been a ploy, if he’d been watching her, and he bumped into her deliberately, I think she’d have twigged, don’t you?’
‘That depends how smart he is. How good an actor.’
‘I suppose so. You think he targeted her specifically?’
She nodded.
‘As I said, we’ve found nothing at all to suggest it. But let’s leave it to one side and just say they met—’
‘But it all matters. If you get that bit wrong, you’re then starting at the wrong place and the rest doesn’t add up.’
He sighed, wondering if she was going to pick holes in everything. ‘Look, we have to go on the facts as we know them. He spills coffee over her and sends her flowers to apologise. One thing leads to another and he takes her out for lunch. Then dinner. This goes on over a few weeks. He tells her he lives in Manchester, so he sees her when he’s in town. We know that’s not true; he lives in London. We assume he hides the fact because he’s probably married and can’t have a normal, open relationship. What he wants is a bit of fun on the side.’ He stopped and looked at her, trying to gauge the impact of what he was saying. He felt uncomfortable talking to her about Claire in such a way. ‘Forgive me if it sounds impersonal . . .’
‘It’s OK. As I said, just forget for a moment it’s Claire. Say it like it is.’
‘So, he wants to move things to the next level, but he’s worried his wife will find out. He gets Claire to book the room at the hotel, using her credit card. She arrives as planned, but something goes wrong. Maybe Claire decided she didn’t want to have sex with him after all. There’s an almighty struggle and he kills her.’
‘But he drugged her. Traces of Rohypnol were found in the blood samples.’
‘You know how common date rape is. Maybe before it took effect, she realised what he was trying to do and tried to get away. The room was a mess . . .’ He omitted the word ‘bed’.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, so he kills her. Then he tidies up the room as best he can and legs it, taking some of her things with him. Maybe in his panic, he thinks she won’t be identified if her handbag is gone.’
‘But she booked the room with her credit card.’
‘I agree he’s not thinking straight. He hasn’t done this before.’
She looked at him sceptically. ‘You really think that this is a one-off ? That it’s a date gone wrong?’
He frowned. ‘Yes. There’s nothing to suggest otherwise. There are no similar, unsolved killings, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ As he spoke, he felt like a dog that had been pulled off a trail too soon, already out of touch with the real feel and smell of the case. He was only repeating what others had said to him and it all sounded a little hollow.
‘What about the words on her legs? “What I am, you will be.” That would have taken thought, and time. It’s hardly the reaction of a man in a panic, who’s accidentally killed somebody he barely knew.’
‘I agree, but people get all sorts of weird ideas from the TV and the Internet. Maybe he was trying to dress it up as a serial killer thing in order to hide what really happened.’ He could see from her expression that she didn’t agree.
‘So, you think the Latin quote just randomly pops up in his head when he’s in panic mode?’
‘What you’re asking is, did he plan it all carefully right from the beginning? Did he set out meaning to kill her? If so, then maybe it wasn’t a chance meeting outside her office, maybe he deliberately targeted her for some reason.’
‘Don’t you think it’s possible he chose her, Mark? That right from the beginning, he knew what he was doing and why?’
‘That’s what you really think?’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe he saw her in the street, or coming out of her office. Maybe he likes tall, willowy brunettes, with blue eyes.’
‘I mean he intended to kill her right from the start.’
‘OK. But why? Maybe he didn’t want sex with her at all, maybe he just wanted to know what it’s like to kill a woman. But that’s a lot less credible as a theory. You know what the studies say . . .’
She shook her head. Tears stood in her eyes and he realised he had gone too far. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘He chose Claire because of who she was, not what she looked like. And killing her isn’t the end game. It’s just part of his plan. Everything was carefully planned, down to the very last detail . . .’
He looked at her shocked. Grief was making her paranoid. ‘Hang on. There are no grounds to say that.’
‘Yes there are. You remember what she had to eat?’
He shook his head. ‘Not precisely. He ordered room service. The room service trolley was sitting by the door, food untouched.’
‘It would be untouched. She was already dead by then. Ask yourself this: you’re in a hotel room with a woman you’ve just murdered. Why bother to order room service? What’s the point?’
He shrugged. ‘To get somebody up to the room. He wanted her found.’
‘He could have ordered a cup of coffee, if that’s all he wanted, and it would have come a hell of a lot quicker.’ She sat back in her chair and shook her head angrily. ‘What he ordered was important, in its own right.’
He frowned, trying to picture what he had seen on the trolley, not understanding at all what she was getting at.
‘Because it’s a message,’ she continued. ‘Just like the words he wrote on her leg.’
‘A message to who?’
‘Ah. That’s the key question.’ She looked at him strangely and bit her lip before saying, ‘It’s all about the details, Mark. Every single tiny detail is significant. Isn’t that what you used to say? It’s why you’re usually so bloody good at what you do. But this time, you’re missing an important piece of the puzzle.’
‘What are you talking about?’
She sighed impatiently. ‘The message wasn’t meant for you, but from where I am, it’s all suddenly pretty clear. The champagne – Justin said it was Krug – the oysters, the turbot, with hollandaise. Don’t you remember?’
He gazed at her blankly. It meant nothing to him. Her eyes were rimmed with red and she looked almost unhinged. He realised it was a mistake to have allowed the conversation to go so far. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Anyway . . .’
‘Never mind,’ she muttered, shaking her head. ‘Maybe I never mentioned it. Doesn’t matter. Do you believe in justice, Mark?’
‘What do you mean by justice?’
‘What do you think should happen to a man like this? A man who viciously and deliberately takes away someone’s life, as though it were just a game, depriving them of a future and destroying the lives of those around them?’
‘You know what I think, Sam. The system isn’t perfect but—’
‘No. It’s far from perfect. In fact, it stinks. He’s done this before, Mark, and he’s got away with it.’ Tears ran down her face as she held his gaze. ‘You’re just not looking at things straight.’
He spread his hand in desperation. ‘Then tell me your theory. Explain what it is I’m missing. I want to help.’
She shook her head again. ‘There’s no point. You won’t do what’s needed. And to be fair to you, you can’t.’
She stood up, picked up her jacket and handbag and walked out of the room towards the bedroom. He heard the door close.
He sat for a moment, stunned. However unreasonable she was being, he knew he had failed her, yet he had no idea how to put it right. He lit a cigarette and sat waiting for her to return, but she didn’t. Grief affected people in many different ways and the anger she was feeling was only normal, although the paranoia was more worrying. None of what she had said made sense. There was no point in blaming poor Chang for revealing the details. If it hadn’t been him, she would have found somebody else to tell her.
Wanting to try and understand her reaction better, he picked up his phone and dialled Chang’s mobile. When Chang eventually answered, he sounded sleepy, as though he’d already long since gone to bed. Tartaglia gave him the gist of the conversation with Donovan.
‘I just want to understand what’s going on with her,’ Tartaglia said. ‘Somehow she seems to have got it into her head that Claire was specifically targeted and that the man meant from the start to kill her. Do you have any idea why, and what this is all about?’
‘No. She asked me a whole load of questions. I just answered as best I could. I didn’t know half the time what she was getting at.’
‘She talked as though it’s all part of a game, with some other end in mind. Where did that come from?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know.’
‘You must have said something that triggered it. What was it?’
Chang sighed. ‘I think the turning point was when I told her about the room service trolley and the food. She seemed pretty normal before that. I actually thought she was coping quite well, all things considered.’
‘You said what?’
‘She asked me to talk her through the crime scene, to describe blow by blow what we saw on the video.’
‘Did she explain what was so important about the trolley?’
‘No. But it wasn’t just the timing of it all, it was what was on the trolley. It really seemed to shake her. She also got very excited about the air con being on low. It meant something to her, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was. She said she needed to speak to you.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, imagining that Chang hadn’t been pleased about that, although his tone gave nothing away. ‘She didn’t say anything about the air conditioning, but she wasn’t making a lot of sense. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He hung up. He took a pull on his cigarette. Something niggled. Why hadn’t she mentioned the air con to him, if it was something significant? He stubbed out his cigarette, went into the hall and knocked on the bedroom door.
‘Sam, can I have a quick word.’
‘What is it?’ she called out.
‘What do you make of the air conditioning in the room being on low? Why is that important?’
There was a small pause before she said, ‘Because he doesn’t want sex.’
‘So?’
After a moment, the door opened a crack and he saw her shadow behind it. ‘Because he gets excited in other ways,’ she said. ‘Because he knows he does. He’s a real pro. If I’m right, I’m telling you, this was all very carefully planned.’
‘Go on.’
‘You got no DNA hits from the room.’
‘No. But as I said, we think he’s a first-timer.’
The door opened wider and her small, pale face peered out at him. ‘Or he’s already on the system, which is why he’s so careful not to leave any. Killing’s a contact sport, or at least it is for him. He likes to get real close. He’s probably clothed head to toe in something to stop himself shedding, but he can’t cover himself up completely or it will spoil the fun. He’s got to see what he’s doing, talk to her as he’s doing it. That’s all really important. That’s what turns him on.’
‘What you’re describing is a serial killer. Somebody who’s done this sort of thing before.’
‘I’m telling you he has. Imagine him on the bed with Claire . . .’ She paused, still holding his gaze. He said nothing, trying not to think about it. They shouldn’t be talking about it. ‘She’s lying there drugged, totally out of it, thank God. He’s on top of her, straddling her, hands around her neck, looking down at her as he strangles the life out of her. He’s hot and the more excited he gets, the more he’s going to sweat. The air con being on as low as it will go when it’s practically freezing outside means he knows the score, he’s been through it all before, and he really cares that you might find something.’
‘But we found nothing.’
‘Maybe he was so damned careful there’s nothing to find. But maybe, just maybe, you weren’t looking in the right places. You need to check if he sweated on her. Particularly check her face, her eyes, her mouth . . .’
‘Her face and mouth were tested for semen and saliva but nothing was found. And the grip areas were negative for DNA. The only profile that came back was hers.’
She said nothing for a moment, then shrugged. ‘So you haven’t actually profiled the tapes from her face?’
‘I don’t know. Look, it’s not my case any longer, Sam.’ Even as he spoke he realised how empty it sounded and he saw her expression harden. He couldn’t be expected to follow the detailed ins and outs of the investigation, particularly given the fact he was working flat out on another case. But even if he had been stretched in fifty different directions, it still would have been a lame excuse. He owed her more than that. He also had failed to fully understand how desperate she must feel being stuck on the side-lines, even if it was the best and safest place for her to be. It was stupid to expect her to wait around passively, doing nothing. She would not rest until Claire’s killer was found and, in her shoes, he would have been no different.
Her description of what might have happened seemed just about plausible, even if the look in her eyes made him question her sanity. But she had a point. It was easily possible that after everything else had tested negative, the tapes used to take samples from Claire’s face and neck hadn’t been prioritised for DNA profiling. They might not even have been sent off yet. It was a detail that should be followed up as soon as possible, if nothing else to tick the box and reassure her. ‘I’ll talk to Steele first thing in the morning,’ he said, hoping to placate her. ‘I’ll make sure it’s done.’
‘Good.’
Before he could say anything else, she closed the door.