Tartaglia followed Fuller out of the room into the corridor and automatically stopped at the coffee machine. He pressed the button for black, still pondering the connection between Finnigan, Simpson and English and the two still unidentified bodies. As he waited, his phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw it was Hannah Bird.
‘I’ve just been to see Marek Nowak’s ex-girlfriend,’ she said. He heard the noise of traffic in the background and gathered she was driving. ‘She doesn’t have any idea where he went. She didn’t see him for several days before he disappeared as they’d had a row. Apparently she’d told him she was seeing somebody else and he was very upset. She assumed he’d taken off because of that, although she said she didn’t believe he’d stolen anything. It’s more or less what she said to CID when the theft was reported. What else do you want me to do?’
‘That’s enough for now, I think.’
‘I’ve also managed to get hold of Rosie, John Smart’s daughter. She’s in London for the day and I’ve arranged to meet her in twenty minutes in the high street. I’m on my way there now, if I can only just get over the bridge. The traffic’s murder.’
‘I’d like to see her. Where are you taking her?’
‘I thought we’d go to the food gallery.’
One of the many disadvantages of their office in Barnes was a lack of interview rooms. It wasn’t set up like a normal police station, with areas for public access, and if they wanted to make it formal they had to go to a station somewhere else and borrow a room. However sometimes a more relaxed atmosphere was better, and at least there were several good cafés and pubs nearby. ‘I’ve just got a few things to do, then I’ll meet you there,’ he said, tipping the foul black liquid away. He could do with a decent cup of coffee to keep him going.
‘I’ve explained about the two fires,’ Bird said to Tartaglia as he slid into the seat next to her half an hour later. Rosie sat opposite, her hands tightly cupped around her cup of coffee as though she needed the warmth. He recognised her immediately from the photos Smart had taken of her.
‘Good. So you understand why we’re here?’
Rosie nodded. ‘It’s about Dad. I know he’s dead. And I now know he’s part of these Jigsaw killings that have been in the papers.’ Her voice was soft and a little breathless and she winced as she spoke, clearly finding the subject painful. Dressed in a big, baggy, colourful jumper and gypsy skirt, with a lot of silver jewellery, she looked nothing like Isobel, Smart’s other daughter.
‘Then you’ll know that he wasn’t the only victim. We’re trying to find out what was going on in his life in the few weeks leading up to his murder. There’s nothing in his diary that raises alarm bells, but somewhere, somehow, he came across the person who killed him. Based on what we know, it’s likely to have been shortly before he disappeared.’
Rosie brushed a wisp of dark hair from her face. ‘I can’t really tell you very much,’ she said, putting the cup carefully back in the saucer. ‘And I didn’t know for weeks that he was missing. Nobody thought to tell me.’ She started to ramble on about how horrible Isobel Smart had been to her.
‘But you know now when it was he went missing?’ Tartaglia interrupted.
‘Yes. The last time I saw him was about a week before he disappeared. We went to see a film, then we had a quick bite to eat before I had to catch my train. He seemed completely normal, nothing at all wrong. We were talking about his coming down to my cottage to stay for a weekend, if only he could square it with Isobel. He didn’t want to have to lie to her, but he hadn’t quite plucked up the courage to tell her. I wanted to spend some time with him, get to know him a bit better. And my mother also wanted to see him. She’s widowed now and I thought maybe . . . Well, he certainly appeared quite keen on the idea of meeting her again, even after so many years. I’m not sure how I’m going to break all this to her.’ She started to describe how her parents had met and about their affair and how she had discovered who her real father was.
‘Is there anything else you remember?’ Tartaglia asked, wanting to keep her on track.
Rosie sighed. ‘We talked about his work. He was doing a play on the radio the following week. There was somebody in the cast he couldn’t stand and he told me some pretty funny anecdotes about them. I’m pretty sure it was a woman, not a man. And he wasn’t that keen on the producer either, but Dad was a bit like that. He could be tricky sometimes.’
‘You don’t remember their names?’ Bird asked.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ Tartaglia said. ‘We can easily find out. Is there anything else?’
She sighed again and hugged herself. ‘It’s so difficult trying to think back. Half the time I can barely remember what happened yesterday, let alone two years ago.’
‘Just tell us what you can. It all helps.’
He didn’t want to push her, make her feel guilty for not being able to remember anything significant. It was quite possible John Smart wasn’t aware of any potential danger to himself or, if he was, that he hadn’t told her about it. But maybe there was something, buried under the sea of little memories.
‘Well, I was just so happy to see him. We didn’t get to spend much time with each other, what with my living out of London and Isobel trying to keep him on a tight rein. She was so bloody jealous.’
‘But he seemed fine to you? He didn’t say he was worried about anything? Even something small?’
She looked at him blankly, then shook her head. ‘He looked well, I thought. He’d lost a bit of weight and seemed on really good form.’
He saw tears in her eyes. ‘Do the names Richard English, Jake Finnigan, or Dave – possibly David – Simpson mean anything to you? Do you remember your father mentioning any of them at some point?’
She frowned, then shook her head. ‘Sorry. I’m pretty hopeless, aren’t I?’
‘There’s no reason why you should have heard of them. I just needed to check. If you think of anything else, however trivial, please call me.’ He handed her his card and stood up. ‘DC Bird will drop you back to the Tube if you want.’
‘It’s OK,’ Rosie said. ‘I’m going to pop over to the Sun Inn now, before I leave London. It’s where I used to go with Dad and his mates. I think I’ll raise a glass to him, wherever he is now, God bless him.’