At ten o’clock the following morning, Tartaglia and Minderedes stood in Choumert Road, Peckham, outside the boarded-up house where the unknown man had died.
‘You take Leonie,’ Tartaglia said. ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Tier.’
She lived on the ground floor of a small housing trust block, just across the street. Her front windows were set back only a few feet from the pavement and she would have had a good view of the comings and goings opposite. As he approached the door to her flat, he heard the deep bark of a large dog inside. He rang the bell. More barking. Wondering if he had drawn the short straw, he heard the sound of several locks being unclicked. The door opened a fraction, on the chain, and a pale, elderly face, framed by artificially red hair, peered out. He heard snuffling behind her, followed by a deep bass growl.
‘Back, Max,’ she bellowed in a surprisingly loud voice, he assumed to the dog. ‘Get back.’
He held up his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia, from the Met Police. May I have a few words with you about the fire across the road?’
‘Will this take long? I’m not dressed.’
‘Just a few questions, that’s all. I’ve already read the statement you gave at the inquest.’
‘I’ll just go and put Max in the kitchen.’ She closed the door behind her and locked it again, returning a couple of minutes later. This time, she opened the door a few inches, without the chain. She had put on a dressing gown and slippers, as well as a slick of red lipstick.
‘Poor man,’ she said, through the gap. ‘They never found out who he was, did they?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to do.’
‘A journalist came by the other day asking questions about what happened.’
‘I know,’ he said, wanting to short cut the process. ‘I just need to ask you a few more things. The dead man was in the room normally occupied by a man called Spike. From what we can tell, he was quite a bit older than Spike. Did you ever see anyone like that going down to the basement flat?’
‘I wasn’t out spying on them, if that’s what you think. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
‘Of course. But was anyone else living down in the basement with Spike? There must have been at least two rooms.’
‘I can’t really say. Leastways, he was the only one I saw coming and going through the basement door.’
‘Do you have any idea who the dead man was?’
‘I’d have told the inquest if I had. My husband was a policeman, Inspector. I know how important these things are. They said he was middle-aged, but I never saw nobody like that go in the house, unless it was people from the landlord trying to talk to them squatters.’
‘But you knew Spike?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a decent enough sort, compared to the rest of them.’
‘How would you describe him?’ Although he had the journalist’s notes, he wanted to hear it for himself.
‘Thin as a rake. No meat on him, to speak of. Mid-brown hair in a ponytail. He always had a ponytail. And he was always in those dark glasses. Couldn’t see his eyes.’
‘What about his clothes?’
‘Nothing special.’
‘Did you notice if he had any scars or tattoos or any other distinguishing marks?’ he asked, thinking about what Tatyana had said about the man who had called himself Chris.
‘Not that I noticed. Sorry.’
‘Was there anyone else in the house he was particular friends with?’
She shook her head. ‘He was a loner. He’d speak to the others but he didn’t have much to do with them. Can’t say I blame him, neither.’
‘Could you take a look at this image and tell me if the face is at all familiar?’ He passed a copy of the E-FIT Tatyana had helped them put together through the gap. He saw her hold it out in front of her, squinting. She turned it to one side, then the other, as though unsure.
She sucked in her breath, then looked up at him. ‘Is this supposed to be Spike?’
‘I’m asking you if you recognise the person in the image.’
There was silence for a moment as she peered at it. ‘It’s not a great likeness. The hair’s different and a bit darker. He wasn’t a ginger. And I told you, I never saw his eyes. His face was thinner and longer. But it might just be him.’ He could see the doubt in her eyes as she handed him back the paper.
People often said things just to try and be helpful. But ‘might’ was nowhere near good enough. Computer-generated images, like the old-fashioned artists’ impressions, were only as good as the input and the intermediary. It had been late evening when Tatyana had helped to put together the E-FIT. Tiredness aside, memory was a tricky thing and having to describe somebody – even somebody you knew quite well – didn’t always translate fluently onto the screen. Maybe Tatyana hadn’t remembered Chris clearly enough for the image to be a good representation and he started to have doubts about using it. They should get her back in for a second attempt.
‘Tell me about Spike. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘A couple of days before the fire.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was off on his bicycle. Don’t know where.’
‘Did he have any other form of transport?’
‘I saw him in a white van a couple of times, but I don’t know if it was his.’
‘Did you ever see him after the fire?’
‘I saw him in the street on his bicycle one day,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It was getting dark and I was dusting the windowsill in the front room. He comes along and stops right in the middle of the street outside his old house, just looking at it. It was all boarded up by then. I knocked on the glass and called out his name, but he didn’t look round and a minute later he’s off again.’
‘This was when?’
‘A few days after the inquest. I was surprised he left it so long after the fire to come back. I mean, he must’ve heard what happened. But maybe he didn’t want to risk being spotted and having to give a statement and all of that business. I suppose he must’ve felt a bit guilty. After all, it was his room and his stove that caught alight and burnt that poor bugger. It might’ve been him on that mattress, but for the grace of God.’ She peered up at Tartaglia with pale, watery eyes.
‘He was just looking at the property, then? He didn’t try to get in?’
‘Perhaps I put him off. He didn’t even get off his bike. Don’t know what he was doing. He must’ve known all his stuff ’d gone up in smoke. Maybe he was feeling sentimental. But you know, maybe he did come back again later.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, someone broke the lock on the fence a couple of days after. They had to send somebody out to repair it, to stop the bloody kids getting in and playing in there.’
He thanked Mrs Tier and caught up with Minderedes in the street.
‘I showed Leonie the E-FIT,’ Minderedes said. ‘She thinks it could be Spike.’
‘Thinks?’
‘Well, more or less.’
He sighed. ‘I suppose it will have to do for now. When we’re done here, I want you to go and find Tatyana and bring her back in. Get her to do the whole thing again.’
Minderedes checked his watch. ‘I’m supposed to see Marek Nowak’s girlfriend in an hour.’
‘This is more important. Get somebody else to speak to her, maybe Hannah. Tell her it doesn’t have to be today, if she can’t fit it in. Mrs Tier said she saw Spike in the street after the inquest and that the property was broken into a few days later. I wonder why he bothered to come back. If he’d left something behind, it wouldn’t still be in the house. I’ll speak to Steele and see if she thinks it’s worth searching the garden, although my guess is he probably found whatever it was he was looking for. In the meantime, get hold of a copy of the autopsy report and find out what happened to the body. Also find out what was done with the stuff recovered from the basement. There was apparently a suitcase with men’s clothing in it by the front door.’
As he turned away, his phone started ringing. He saw Melinda’s name on the screen and let it go to voicemail. Deal or no deal, he was nowhere near ready to talk to her yet.