Tartaglia and Steele stood together at the back of Dave Simpson’s hospital room, watching while Chang and Fuller asked the questions. Simpson lay stretched out flat under the cover, arms limp at his sides, his skin still grimy with smoke and dirt. There had been talk of handcuffing him, but it was decided that in his current state he would be unlikely to run away and a couple of uniformed constables outside the door were considered to be sufficient security for the moment. Simpson was linked up to some sort of monitor and his head was heavily bandaged. He was suffering from concussion, as well as smoke inhalation, but a CT scan had revealed nothing too alarming. Physically, he was well enough to be interviewed, according to the attendant physician. He had been cautioned and a solicitor summoned but Simpson was saying nothing, either to his brief or the police. He stared into space as though they weren’t there, the only response to their questions an occasional blink of his eyes.
Looking at him, Tartaglia felt numb. He recognised Simpson as the man he’d seen at the house in Castelnau, but he appeared different, somehow shrunken and less significant, as though his injuries rendered him more human than the cold-blooded murderer they had been searching for. The so-called Jigsaw Killer. The stuff of nightmares. There was no evidence on his surprisingly sensitive-looking hands of the cross-like scar Tatyana had described. Like so much else she had told them, it had been a lie. Was it his intention to plead insanity? Was he actually insane? Tartaglia doubted it. To have carried out the murders as he had done, he had to have been in full control of his faculties. Simpson had also seemed perfectly normal when Tartaglia had first come across him in the front garden of Jane Waterman’s house. He had certainly been able to function normally, and maintain some sort of a relationship with Chantal Blomet, although according to her she had only seen him a couple of times a week, on and off, and they hadn’t been living together. She said that she always felt Simpson wanted to keep her at a distance.
She had eventually broken down and agreed to tell them what she knew about the murder of Richard English. She said that Simpson had come to her flat that night, saying he had nowhere to stay. He had been in a strange, wired state, unable to keep still, like a wild animal pacing up and down in a cage. Eventually, he told her what had happened. He blamed English for ruining his life. He had needed to confront English, tell him what he’d done to him, before he could find peace and move on. Simpson told her he had used some sort of anaesthetic or tranquilliser to subdue English and had transported him in the back of a van he had borrowed to the house in Peckham. A couple of people had seen him half-carry, half-walk a groggy middle-aged man down the stairs to the basement, but had probably assumed that English was just another drunk. In that neighbourhood, nobody paid much attention to such comings and goings. Simpson said how easy it had all been, until English started to come out of it and tried to attack him, knocking over the stove by accident. The flames had taken hold so quickly, it was all Dave could do to escape. Minderedes and Wightman had probed and pressed Chantal mercilessly, but she insisted that that was what Simpson had told her and she had believed him. She said it had been a horrible accident. Nothing the detectives said could change her mind. Perhaps it was the only version she found bearable.
Chantal had also continued to insist that she knew nothing about what had happened to Jake Finnigan or John Smart, and in the end Tartaglia believed her. She said that Simpson used to visit Jane Waterman quite often and that eventually she had given him a key to her house and he became her lodger. Like Simpson, she had no close family; she was lonely and liked having people around. They would talk about all sorts of things, including the restaurant he was going to set up with her help, once the sale of an overseas property finally came through. He used to cook for her and do various chores around the house. In return, she would give him money. He would also take her out in her car occasionally to do some shopping, or to the library up the road. Tartaglia imagined how frustrated somebody as talented as Simpson must have felt, reduced to such a menial role, his bitterness directed at Richard English and then Jake Finnigan. In his eyes, they were the architects of his downfall. As for Jane Waterman, Simpson had told Chantal that Jane had complained of feeling unwell and that he’d gone up to her room one morning with her breakfast and found her lying in her bed, dead. Simpson said that she looked very peaceful, as though she were just asleep. With her had died his immediate hopes of resurrecting his career.
Although Tartaglia remained convinced Simpson had started the fire deliberately, he had initially wondered if Simpson had been at least partially truthful when he told Chantal that all he wanted was just to confront English. But why then go to the trouble of taking him all the way to Peckham to kill him? A quick knife in the back, or blow to the head in a dark alley, would have done just as well. Maybe, as Simpson had described it, things had got out of hand in the basement bedroom. Maybe English had found Simpson’s weak spot yet again – there were so many – and goaded him and, after everything that had happened, in the heat of the moment Simpson had killed him – or at least left him for dead.
But when Tartaglia thought about Finnigan’s murder, calculated and cold-blooded in every detail, only one thing made sense. From the start, Simpson had intended to kill English. The reason for taking English all the way to Peckham was to string it out, to make him pay for what he’d done. Perhaps Simpson was also a man who liked to make things complicated. Perhaps that was what gave him satisfaction. Simpson had kept a great deal from Chantal, it seemed. Tartaglia remembered how Ellie Simpson had described her husband as a loner who kept things bottled up inside. It was easier for somebody like him to compartmentalise things and act completely alone.
Simpson was still saying nothing and had closed his eyes, either asleep now or pretending to be so. They were all tired, they were getting nowhere and, listening to the occasional interjection from Simpson’s brief, Tartaglia could see the insanity plea looming large on the horizon.
Steele got to her feet. ‘Let’s take a comfort break, everybody. I need to make some calls, and we could all use some refreshments.’ She looked meaningfully in Simpson’s direction. ‘We could be here all night, and tomorrow if need be. Hopefully, Mr Simpson will be fit enough by then to accompany us to the nearest station. Lying in bed doesn’t really help focus the mind.’
There was no sign that Simpson had registered any of it. Wightman switched off the recorder and Tartaglia watched them all file out of the room into the corridor. He hung back.
‘You coming?’ Steele asked, from the doorway.
‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’
Once she had gone, he turned to the bed, bent down and whispered in Simpson’s ear:
‘This is Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia, Dave. You’re not being recorded and there’s nobody in the room except you and me. You don’t need to open your eyes. Just listen.’ Simpson’s eyes remained closed, his breathing steady. There was nothing to suggest that Simpson had heard him but he didn’t wait for a response. ‘I can understand why you killed Richard English. I imagine you thought about it all the time you were in jail. It must have been eating away at you. I know you meant to kill him right from the get-go and what you told Chantal was a pack of lies, but it doesn’t matter. There are those who’d say English got what he deserved. Same goes for Jake Finnigan. They both ruined your life. I guess John Smart was just collateral damage. He poked his nose in where it wasn’t wanted and threatened the new life you’d made for yourself in Barnes. We don’t yet know who the fourth victim is, but I have my suspicions. I think he’s the Polish gardener, Marek Nowak, and you killed him – same as with John Smart – to silence him, to stop anybody finding out what you’d done. All of this I understand, even if I can’t sympathise with you.’ He paused, studying Simpson’s thin, boyish face for a reaction. But there was none. In a way, he didn’t care. ‘What I don’t get is why you killed Jane Waterman. You didn’t have to. She offered you a home. She was kind and you meant something to her. She wanted to help put you back on your feet and rebuild your life.’
He paused again, but there was still no indication that Simpson was listening. ‘We’re waiting for DNA confirmation,’ he continued, ‘but when it comes through, you’ll be charged with her murder too. Is that really what you want? Doesn’t the truth mean anything to you?’
There was still no sign of life from Simpson. Tartaglia straightened himself, flexed his tired shoulders and made as if to go.
As he turned, Simpson opened his eyes and grabbed hold of Tartaglia’s wrist.
‘I didn’t kill Jane.’ His voice was hoarse and strangely high-pitched. ‘I killed the others, but not Jane.’
Donovan watched Adam from behind the door, saw him creep into the room and slowly climb onto the bed, straddling the inert human shape she had created in the middle. He bent down over the mound and she heard him whisper her name. Hate filled her and she rushed forwards, a low growl erupting from her throat. He turned and, as she swung the baseball bat, he tried to duck. The blow glanced off the side of his head. He stared at her for a moment then made as if to get off the bed, lurching forwards like somebody drunk. He stretched out a hand to the wall and tried to steady himself, putting his other hand to his head and touching the place where she had hit him. He stared for a moment at the blood left on his fingers, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was it enough? Had she struck him hard enough? She held the bat ready to do it again.
‘Sam?’ He sagged forwards, then fell onto the floor in a heap. She switched on the overhead light. He lay there motionless, eyes closed. It looked as though he had passed out, but she didn’t trust him. A small, black rucksack sat on the floor beside him. Careful not to get too close, the bat in her hand in case he should try anything, she grabbed the rucksack by one of its straps and pulled it towards her. Quickly unzipping it, she tipped the contents out onto the bed. Along with a bottle of small white tablets, handcuffs and a gag, there was a pistol, which she recognised as a Glock. She put down the bat and picked up the gun. It had no safety catch, she remembered from her firearms training. Not knowing if the trigger pull had been lightened, she would have to be extra careful not to touch it until she was ready. With the gun in one hand, she clipped the handcuffs around his wrists. He didn’t stir.
‘Get up,’ she shouted, kicking him as hard as she could between the shoulders. No reaction. She kicked him again, this time in the small of his back where his kidneys were, and he moved slightly and groaned. ‘Get the fuck up.’ Still he didn’t stir. Had she overdone it or was he faking? She was sweating, shaking from head to foot. Careful not to get too close, she bent down and pressed the muzzle of the Glock hard against his temple. ‘Can you hear me, Adam? This is your gun pointing at your head. Can you feel it?’ She shoved it harder into his skin and slowly he opened his eyes. ‘I found it in your rucksack, along with all the other disgusting stuff you like to use. If you don’t get up, I will kill you.’ Even though his hands were secured behind him, she still didn’t trust him not to try something. She watched every movement as he struggled to roll over onto his back.
‘Take off the cuffs,’ he said softly. ‘They’re hurting. I can’t move like this. I won’t do anything, I promise.’
She stared at him. He looked different from how she remembered him. His face was tanned, his hair streaked by the sun. She wondered where he had been living all this time, how he had managed to hide himself away. The last time she had seen him was in Ealing, a year earlier. He had taken her out for dinner and they had gone back to his home afterwards for a drink. He had then tried to kill her. It was strange to think she had once found him so attractive, but there was no shame in that. He was skilful and infinitely manipulative. He knew exactly how to prey on weakness and to seduce, and it wasn’t her fault or Claire’s that they had both succumbed to him. She hated him now more than she had ever thought it possible to hate anyone.
‘Unless you get up right now, I will kill you,’ she said. ‘I mean it. I don’t care any longer what happens to me.’
Gradually, with difficulty, using his elbows and legs, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the wall. He seemed disorientated, but he was probably faking. She didn’t care either way. Suddenly he gasped, bent over and vomited.
‘Go on. Get up.’ She kicked him again.
Coughing, he slowly tried to get to his feet but, as he did so, he lost his balance and sank down onto the edge of the bed. ‘Christ, I feel sick. You really whacked me hard, you know.’ He sat there, shoulders hunched, looking strangely pale and pathetic. Then, after a moment, he frowned and said, ‘You were waiting for me.’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know?’
‘You wanted me to know. You couldn’t help bragging, could you? Which is why you left those clues.’
‘Clever little Sam.’
‘They were things only I would pick up on, so it was clear you were speaking to me. What you wrote on her legs . . . Eris quod sum. What I am, you will be. It was meant for me. It was a warning of what was to come.’
Coughing again, he nodded. ‘You’re right. I was thinking of you all the time and I did sort of want you to know. I wanted you to think of me too, to know that I was coming for you. What other clue in particular did you pick up on?’
‘The food on the room service trolley. It was exactly what I had for dinner when you took me out that night.’
‘It was a good dinner,’ he said, with a faint smile. ‘I’m glad you remember. The Krug was fucking expensive, but it was worth it. You were worth it. We could do it again sometime.’
She shook her head, amazed. It was as if what he had done meant nothing, as though the horror of it was locked away in some parallel universe and their relationship was perfectly normal, like one-time lovers who had met up again by chance.
Slowly he eased himself off the bed and got to his feet.
She raised her arm and pointed the gun. ‘Stay right there or I’ll shoot.’
‘Come on. You wouldn’t shoot me, would you Sam?’ He took an unsteady step towards her. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Don’t move. I will shoot you.’
‘But then you’d be no better than me, would you?’
‘I don’t care what I am any longer. And there’s no point sending you to jail.’
‘But you do care, Sam. There’s a part of you that still remembers that dinner, sitting on the sofa together . . .’
‘Shut up. If you come any closer, I will kill you.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think you’ve got the guts.’
She felt the trigger with her finger. She was so close to pressing it. Maybe he was trying to provoke her. Perhaps he wanted her to kill him. Did it matter? What mattered was what he had done to Claire and the others. The sad young girls and women he had groomed and seduced and lured to their deaths. She could still remember some of their names, their faces, the details of what he had done to them, the families left broken in his wake. She had never killed anyone before. Never even been close to it. But it was the only way. The gun felt light in her hand. All she had to do was press the trigger, then it would all be over.
He was staring at her, smiling broadly in a lop-sided way, showing his perfect white teeth. ‘You haven’t got the fucking guts, have you Sam? Stop being a silly tart and put the gun down.’
As he moved towards her, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened, no pop, no recoil. She opened her eyes and saw the surprise in his. She relaxed her forefinger, then squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. The slide was locked, the magazine empty. He rushed at her, hitting her with his head and the full force of his body weight, and together they fell to the floor.
Tartaglia punched the button for a large black coffee and waited while the machine buzzed into action. He was in a corridor, not far from Simpson’s room, Steele still on her phone elsewhere, updating her superiors on the current state of play. As he watched the cup slowly fill, he kept thinking about what Simpson had said. I killed the others, but not Jane. It was all he had said, closing his eyes firmly afterwards and letting go of Tartaglia’s arm. But it was enough. The way Tartaglia saw things, it hadn’t made sense for Simpson to have murdered Jane Waterman and he was pleased with the confirmation. Revenge had been Simpson’s main motivation, followed by self-protection, and her death didn’t fit in with either. He was just wondering how he was going to explain to Steele that he’d extracted an unofficial and unrecorded confession out of Simpson with no witnesses present, let alone Simpson’s solicitor, when he saw her practically running along the corridor towards him. She wasn’t a woman ever to hurry and he wondered what was wrong.
‘Mark, there you are,’ she called out. ‘I’ve just had a call from the lab. They’ve processed the tapes from Claire Donovan’s face and they found DNA. You’re not going to believe this. It’s Adam Zaleski’s.’
He stared at her for a moment as he took in the information, reached automatically for the cup, which was now full. Adam Zaleski, the serial killer known as The Bridegroom, the man who had tried and failed to kill Sam Donovan a year ago, who had disappeared afterwards without trace. He remembered her pinched, tired face the other night, the strange look in her eyes as she tried to talk to him and her tears of anger and frustration as he failed to understand. Her words rattled through his head in a discontinuous fashion, something along the lines of he’s done this before, Mark . . . you’re just not looking at things straight . . . She had said that the food on the room service trolley was some sort of message – a message not meant for him, but presumably for her. Of course, she was talking about Zaleski. He’d been incredibly stupid not to understand. Then there was all that stuff she’d said about justice and it all being crystal clear from where she was standing. She had tried to tell him that night. She had wanted him to know, maybe wanted his help. He had just been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to listen and he had dismissed it all as a flight of fancy resulting from her mental state. He felt sick, his heart heavy. He had failed her so badly.
‘She knew all along,’ he said.
‘Who knew? What are you talking about?’
‘Sam knew it was Zaleski all along,’ he mumbled, staring at the coffee cup that was burning his fingers as he tried to block out Steele. He replayed again in his head what Donovan had said about justice, or the lack of it: Do you believe in justice, Mark? . . . What do you think should happen to a man like this?
When he had asked her to explain her theory of what had happened to Claire, she had dismissed him. ‘There’s no point. You won’t do what’s needed.’ Jesus!
He looked up at Steele. ‘She’s going to do something stupid.’
Donovan pushed Zaleski off her and sat up. He lay on his back, staring unfocussed at the ceiling, lips moving as he mumbled something unintelligible, blood and saliva bubbling from his mouth. The black, knurled grip of the knife stuck out of his chest at right angles, blood still flowing freely from under the hilt. It was a Fairbairn-Sykes combat knife, the stiletto blade seven inches long, designed for slipping easily between the ribs and penetrating deep into the flesh of a human being. A former boyfriend who had been into martial arts had given it to her. Up until tonight she had always kept it in the desk drawer in her bedroom, using it for mundane tasks such as opening letters or packages. Tonight, as a precaution, she had strapped it – in its sheath – to her calf. The knife had certainly done its job well and, with his hands tied behind him, even if Zaleski had had the energy to try, there was no danger of his pulling it out. She could smell his vomit and his blood; her hands were slippery with it. Blood had also soaked her T-shirt, which felt cold and wet against her skin. It wouldn’t be long, she thought. Then it would all be over.
She heard a footstep behind her and looked around. A very tall man stood in the doorway. He was dressed head to toe in a black tracksuit, the hood pulled down low over his face so she couldn’t see his eyes.
‘Who the hell are you?’ she asked faintly, too tired to move, let alone try and make a run for it.
He pulled back the hood, revealing very short fair hair and a deeply tanned face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. My name’s Peter. Peter Ward. Are you OK?’ The tone of his voice was reassuring. As he spoke, his eyes turned to Zaleski on the floor.
She nodded. She felt suddenly sick, brought her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. She started to shake.
Peter crouched down beside her and put a muscular arm around her. ‘Don’t worry. Take a deep breath. You’re safe now.’
She breathed in and out, at first in shallow gasps, then slower and deeper. After a minute or so, she started to feel calmer and leaned back against the wall.
‘You’re not hurt?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘It’s his blood, not mine.’
‘Did you stab him with the knife?’
She nodded.
‘Bloody hell. You’ve done my job for me.’
He knelt down over Zaleski, felt his pulse, then peered at his face, pushing up each eyelid in turn with his thumb. ‘There’s no way he’ll be coming back to trouble us again.’ He picked up the Glock from the floor and tucked it into his belt.
‘It’s his gun,’ she said, finding it difficult to speak.
‘I know. It was me who emptied the magazine.’
She looked up at the gaunt face and met a pair of strange, ice-blue eyes. They were like the eyes of one of those sleek, grey dogs, she thought, although the expression was kinder. ‘You know him?’
‘I don’t know who he is, but I’ve been sharing a house with him for a few days and keeping tabs on him in my spare time, with the help of some mates. I followed him here tonight. I think he killed my uncle.’ He held out a huge hand and gently lifted her to her feet.
She unstrapped the knife’s sheath from her calf and kicked off her trainers. At least there would be no more deaths.
‘Did you know he’d be coming?’ he asked, looking at the sheath.
‘I wasn’t sure if it’d be tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. But I knew it wouldn’t be long.’
‘You’d better give me that, then. Just say you had the knife lying around in your room. It’s self-defence, of course, and you and I know he had it coming in spades, but I wouldn’t want the police getting any silly ideas about premeditation, if you get my drift. The law’s a funny thing sometimes. Next thing you know, instead of you being the victim, they’ll be banging you to rights for his murder and his bloody family will be suing for damages.’
She nodded and handed him the sheath, which he tucked away in his pocket. Although grateful for his words of support, she was too exhausted to explain that she probably knew the law better than he did. She had set a trap for Zaleski, using herself as bait, leaving the ground floor window unlocked, knowing that he would find it. She had armed herself with the knife and secreted other weapons about the house in case she needed them and had waited for him to come. She could hardly argue spur of the moment self-defence. She hadn’t really thought about the consequences before, let alone cared what happened to her. All that had mattered was to avenge Claire’s murder in whatever way she could and to make sure that Zaleski wouldn’t escape to kill again. She had also somehow wanted to make him feel fear and suffer for all the evil he had done, but there had been no specific plan. In the end, it hadn’t happened the way she had imagined it. It was all over so quickly. The only consolation was the look of surprise, followed by horror, in his eyes as she shoved the knife deep into his flesh. It would have to do. Now that he was dead, she must pull herself together, think things through carefully and get her story straight. As far as she was concerned, justice had been done. There was no point ending up in jail for his murder.
‘Are you going to be OK?’ Peter asked.
‘Yes, I think so. What happened to your uncle?’
‘It’s a long story, but he suddenly disappears off the radar out in Thailand, where he’s been living on and off. There were some odd emails, which we’re sure didn’t come from him. Then a few weeks later this random bloke pops up in Uncle Kit’s house in London, behaving as if he owns it. As I said, I’ve been following him, trying to find out who he was and what he was up to. He seemed to be interested in a house in Brook Green . . .’
She frowned, things slowly clicking into place. ‘Was this a couple of nights ago?’ She gave Tartaglia’s address.
‘That’s right. He’d been watching the house.’
‘So it was you. I saw you in the street when I was coming home. You ran off.’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘We thought you were a journalist.’ She felt dizzy and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment, as things started to slot into place in her mind. So Zaleski had known all along that she was staying with Tartaglia. No doubt he had followed her there from her own house the day after Claire’s murder. It would have been easy, nobody paying particular attention. Perhaps he didn’t want to risk attacking her at Tartaglia’s. Or maybe, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, he wanted to wait until she was back at home to kill her. He was a sharp judge of character and he knew her well enough. He rightly anticipated that she would eventually return. The anonymous calls to the house had been made by him, as she had suspected, checking to see if she was there.
‘Who is he?’ Peter said, jerking his head in Zaleski’s direction.
‘His name’s Adam Zaleski and he’s killed several people. If you thought he’d killed your uncle, why didn’t you go to the police?’
‘We didn’t have any proof. We couldn’t get access to my uncle’s bank accounts or anything, which is why I decided I had to find out more on my own. He called himself Tom, but it was pretty clear it wasn’t his real name. I kept an eye on him for a few days and I searched his things, but there was nothing I could go to the police with. He was equally suspicious of me and he did a rather amateurish job of following me on a couple of occasions. I wanted to find out who he was, so I got a mate of mine to nick his wallet. There was nothing in it apart from some cash and a couple of my uncle’s credit cards. Uncle Kit was pretty tight with his money. He’d never have given his cards to anyone, so I knew then that something definitely must’ve happened to him, but it was all still pretty circumstantial. Without Uncle Kit’s body, or anything else, I didn’t think the police would take me seriously. I tried to scare him into doing something to give himself away. I thought maybe if I kept up the pressure he’d crack, but then I realised he had other plans. When he came back to the house earlier this evening, he looked as though he was packing up his things to make a run for it, so I followed him here.’
Too exhausted to reply, barely able to keep track of what he was saying, she stood up. As she did so, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Zaleski’s blood was smeared and spattered over her face like war paint. She had told herself repeatedly that somehow she would get through it and now, seeing her reflection, she realised that finally she had. She was still alive and the nightmare was over.
‘Will you call the police?’ she asked Ward, with a final glance at Zaleski. ‘Before I do anything else, I need to get out of these disgusting clothes and take a shower.’
‘Of course. I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
As he turned to leave, she heard the screech of tyres outside, followed by car doors slamming and the sound of sirens coming at speed towards them down the street. Peter crossed the room and peered out through the curtains.
‘Looks like the cavalry’s already here.’
‘Can you go and let them in, please? I don’t want them breaking down the front door.’