Die With Me (11 page)

‘Exactly. Which means they’ve talked to someone who’s seen the emails. We’re leaking like a bloody sieve.’ Cornish paused in front of Clarke’s mirror and made a minute adjustment to the knot of his pale blue silk tie.

The gesture almost made Tartaglia smile. Trust Cornish to be worrying about his appearance at such a time. ‘You know how difficult it is keeping such things out of the press, sir. It’s not the first time…’

‘They’re even speculating about the number of victims,’ Cornish continued, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘They’re wondering how many suicides have been misdiagnosed, wondering if we have another Shipman on our hands.’ Cornish stared into the mirror, smoothing his sleek, silver hair with a palm, as if to calm himself.

‘That’s ludicrous.’

‘Of course it is.’ Cornish suddenly swung around, expression startled. ‘We are sure about the third, aren’t we?’

Tartaglia nodded. ‘Dr Blake confirmed it. The tox results are unlikely to tell us anything, but a lock of hair is definitely missing, same as with Gemma Kramer.’

‘But how the hell do they know about number three? You only dug her up this morning.’

‘As I said, sir, this is not the first time there’s been a leak.’ He had to make the point even though he knew that Cornish wasn’t listening.

Cornish shook his head slowly. ‘This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. How do they expect us to do our jobs with this sort of pressure, under a bloody microscope, all the details out there for any Tom, Dick or Harry to pick over?’

‘You’ve spoken to the press office?’

‘Of course, but there’s nothing they can do now. The genie’s out of the bottle and there’s no putting it back. Damage limitation’s our main objective. I’m doing a briefing in time for the evening news.’ He paused, deep in thought for a moment, then turned to Tartaglia, rocking back on his heels, hands back in his pockets, looking uncomfortable. ‘Look, Mark. This has forced my hand, I hope you understand.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well, I’m going to have to ask you to step down as SIO.’

‘What? You can’t blame me for this?’

Cornish pursed his lips. ‘Of course I don’t. But this is all getting out of control. With Trevor in hospital, I have no choice.’

‘So you’re taking over?’

Cornish shook his head and folded his arms defensively. ‘Can’t do that. Haven’t got the time. I’m bringing someone experienced in.’

Tartaglia felt a jolt of anger and the blood rise to his face. He stared hard at Cornish who looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘But I’m experienced, sir. You could come in as SIO and handle the press. I could still report directly to you.’

‘Can’t do, Mark. We have a linked series on our hands. It’s big news and I must make sure everything’s properly handled.’

‘But I’ve worked two serial cases in the last two years, both with a successful conviction.’

‘I know. But Clarke headed up the team.’

Fists clenched behind his back, nails digging deep into his palms, Tartaglia shook his head, still not quite believing what was happening. ‘We worked together. He’d tell you the same if he were here.’

Cornish forced a smile. ‘Look, Mark, I’m not doubting that. You’re bloody good at what you do. That’s why I asked you to step up as SIO in the first place.’

‘Yes, and I’m the one who’s found out that there’s a serial killer at work. I can handle the investigation. You don’t need to bring in someone from outside.’

‘I must, given what’s happened, given that things are now a lot more…’ Cornish paused, searching for the word then shrugged his shoulders apologetically. ‘Well, complicated, shall we say, and high profile. It’s very delicate, don’t you see? I need someone very experienced on the ground in Barnes to take overall charge.’

‘I could carry on reporting to you,’ Tartaglia continued, almost shouting. ‘It’s been done before.’

Cornish blinked, speaking slowly between clenched his teeth.

‘I told you, I haven’t got the time.’

Or the experience, Tartaglia thought, bitterly. That’s what was at the root of it all. The other superintendents and chief superintendents up in Hendon wouldn’t think twice about stepping in and taking charge, leaving Tartaglia as SIO. But not Cornish. He didn’t feel secure enough, just in case he screwed up. It was fucking unfair. This should have been Tartaglia’s big break, an important stepping-stone in the path to becoming a DCI himself. He had done all the spadework. He had found out about the other girls. Now, just because Cornish wasn’t up to it, someone else was going to come in, steal his thunder and take over.

‘So, who is it?’ Tartaglia said, trying to contain his desire to punch Cornish.

Cornish spoke quietly. ‘DCI Carolyn Steele. Maybe you’ve come across her.’

Carolyn Steele. Although Tartaglia had never had any direct dealings with her, he knew who she was by sight. There weren’t that many female DCIs heading up murder teams, certainly not half-decent looking ones. In her early forties, he guessed, Steele was short and shapely in an athletic sort of way, with dark hair, almost luminously pale skin and a pair of striking green eyes. She’d been working up in Hendon for a while and had a good enough reputation, although that didn’t make it any better. Before that, he thought she’d been running one of the murder teams based in East London.

Another thought occurred to Tartaglia and made him even more furious. ‘When did you decide this? It wasn’t today, was it? You’re not just doing this because of the leak?’

Cornish shook his head, avoiding his eyes as he picked at a tiny thread from his jacket sleeve. ‘Once it was clear that we were looking at a series, I had to do something. As I said, I’m very busy. It’s just a shame it couldn’t be managed in a more gradual way.’

Before Tartaglia had a chance to reply, there was a knock and Carolyn Steele put her head around the door.

‘They told me you were in here, sir,’ she said to Cornish. ‘Are you ready for me?’

Cornish nodded. ‘Come in Carolyn. This is Mark Tartaglia.’

Steele closed the door behind her and turned abruptly to Tartaglia. She held out a small, firm hand that was cold to the touch, studying him in a way that instantly irritated him.

‘Hello, Mark. I’m looking forward to working with you. It’s an interesting case we’ve got here.’

Carolyn Steele sat in Clarke’s office, reading through the files. Tartaglia had given her a full debriefing and, so far, she couldn’t fault anything that he had done in the investigation or the conclusions that he had drawn. Before coming, she had checked him out with various people up in Hendon. He was generally well thought of, although very much Clarke’s man, with a reputation for being a little headstrong. But stepping into that small, claustrophobic office and meeting him for the first time, arrogant and cocksure were the words that came to mind. The air almost hummed with it, the antagonism in his eyes blinding. She was taken aback by the strength of his reaction. After all, she was just following orders. It wasn’t her fault she had been parachuted in over his head.

Was it because she was a woman, perhaps? Anyone who thought sexism in the Met was a thing of the past had his or her head in the sand. Perhaps Cornish had prepared the ground badly or, worse still, had deliberately said something to undermine her. It wouldn’t be the first time, she thought, remembering a previous investigation where, for reasons of his own, the waters had been poisoned by her superior. Cornish had seemed even more awkward than usual and he had scuttled out of the room and back to Hendon almost immediately as if he seemed embarrassed or had something to hide. She had never worked directly for him before and found his behaviour hard to read. Perhaps he was the kind who liked to light the touch paper, step back and watch what happened.

It had been particularly awkward asking Tartaglia to vacate Clarke’s office; yet another slap in the face. But there was no available alternative, the facilities at Barnes being even more cramped and dilapidated than she had been led to believe, with barely room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat. She had made the mistake of parking her car in the building’s small underground car park, only to be told that it was for the exclusive use of the robbery squad on the second floor. She had to take her chances with the rest of them, fighting for a free space in the open back yard, in the end blocking someone in and having to leave a note. For the first time, she actually thought with some fondness of her glass box of an office up in Hendon. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to be away for long, although with a case like this, anything was possible.

She had left Tartaglia and his team in charge of the Gemma Kramer investigation, continuing to research the girl’s background, checking phone records, the places she visited every day, the people she saw, trying to find a link with the other victims. The other DI, Gary Jones, and his team were doing the same for Laura Benedetti and Ellie Best. Unfortunately, Clarke’s team was even more stretched than Cornish had led her to believe, with only two DIs rather than the usual three, and even lighter in the lower ranks. The issue was common throughout the Met. Of course, there were the usual explanations; several members of the team had moved on elsewhere, yet to be replaced, one was off on long-term sick leave, one on maternity leave, and another about to join her shortly. But with a high profile case like this one, it didn’t help. Not for the first time, she wondered if she had been handed a poisoned chalice.

She glanced at her watch. Cornish would have just finished the media briefing. Following on from that, the press office had managed to get her a last-minute slot on
Crimewatch
the next day. She knew they were likely to be inundated with calls, all of which would have to be followed up whether helpful or not, taking up valuable time and manpower. But there was no alternative. With little to go on, they urgently needed more information. Once the calls started coming in, it would be vital to narrow the field of focus as far as possible. The next step was to call in a profiler.

As usual, neither of the Met’s two in-house profilers was available. Looking down the handful of other names on the National Crime Faculty approved register, a few were familiar. However, she was unlikely to have the luxury of choice. Although she wanted input right away, it was going to be difficult finding anybody immediately who had time to spare. Scattered all over the country, they were usually tied up with academic or clinical matters and she knew from experience that you could wait weeks, or even months, before getting an opinion, by which time it was often of no use.

A particular name kept leaping out at her from the list. Although she tried to avoid looking at it, her eyes couldn’t help returning to it. He was the obvious solution. He was based in London and, if anyone was likely to do her a favour and drop everything, he would. But should she ask him? Was it wise? Probably not. Shoes off, stockinged feet up on the edge of the desk drawer, she swivelled slowly from side to side, weighing up the pros and cons, Clarke’s ancient chair squeaking worryingly beneath her. No, it wasn’t wise but who else was there? Besides, it was the right thing for the case. She would worry about the consequences later. She swung her feet onto the floor, feeling for her shoes with her toes as she stretched for the phone and dialled his number. It was disturbing that she could still remember it by heart.

‘It’s an unusual case, don’t you think?’ Steele said, pretending to focus on her bitter lemon, swirling the ice around in the glass, as she studied Dr Patrick Kennedy’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. Although he was doing his best to appear only casually interested in what she had told him, she could tell he was intrigued. It amused her that with all his knowledge of psychology he could sometimes be so transparent, as well as unaware of the fact. She looked up at him and smiled sweetly. ‘Naturally, your name came to mind because of the book you’re writing on serial killers. I thought you’d find the case particularly interesting so I haven’t spoken to anyone else about it yet.’

‘I appreciate that,’ he said, after taking a swig of sauvignon blanc, a broad grin on his boyish face. ‘You’ve only given me a brief outline, but I can see all sorts of fascinating aspects about the case already.’

They were sitting at the back of a half-empty wine bar in South Kensington, around the corner from where Kennedy worked in the Unit for Forensic Psychology, part of London University. Kennedy was well known within the Met and she had suggested somewhere near him, rather than Barnes, as she didn’t want any of her new team seeing them together until he was officially on board. She was now regretting leaving the choice to him. Although it was late afternoon, the air was still thick with the smell of fried food and cigarette smoke, left over from the lunchtime crowd. Her hair and clothes would reek of it afterwards and she hoped she wouldn’t have to stay long.

As usual, Kennedy was looking good. Dressed casually for a change in a leather jacket, shirt and jeans, his broad face was almost unlined and his thick, wavy brown hair devoid of any grey. Although just over forty, according to the brief biographical information on his website that she had re-checked earlier, he could easily be taken for one of his postgraduate students. It had been a stroke of luck bumping into him the previous week at the Peel Centre in Hendon, where she normally worked. Kennedy had just given a lecture on Behavioural Investigative Analysis, the new buzzword for profiling, at the Met’s Crime Academy. He was trying to find his way around the huge, sprawling complex to one of the canteens but had lost his way. It had been a while since they had last seen each other and he seemed uncharacteristically hesitant, almost embarrassed, as he asked her to join him for a coffee. But she was late for a meeting and they agreed to catch up sometime soon for a drink. He had left a couple of messages on her answer machine a few days later, suggesting a couple of dates, but feeling suddenly wary, she had failed to return the calls. At least he didn’t seem to be holding it against her now.

‘So, Patrick, what do you think? Do you have time to look at it?’ She caught his eye, trying to gauge his reaction. He pursed his lips and took a large mouthful of wine, spinning it out. He knew he was her best option at such short notice, that nobody else would be likely to make space for her immediately. Calling in personal favours was not something she liked to do, as a rule, but what other choice did she have? She needed input right away. And from his perspective, it wasn’t often that such a case came along. Surely, he wouldn’t say no.

He put his glass down with a shrug. ‘I’m very busy at the moment, but what’s new.’

‘So, can you help?’ she said, wanting to hurry things along, desperate to get his agreement and get out of that foul-smelling, airless place.

‘From the little you’ve told me, it’s certainly intriguing. I’d need to juggle a few things.’ He let the sentence hang, studying her carefully in a way that was suddenly intimate and made her feel uncomfortable. She had the impression that there was something he wanted to say and she hoped he wasn’t going to allude to what had happened between them before. Then he nodded slowly and smiled. ‘It’s good of you to ask me, Carolyn. And I’m very pleased to see you again, even if you don’t return my calls.’

‘Well?’ she asked, ignoring the comment. ‘Will you help?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think I can. It’s a shame the press have got involved quite so early and that the source seems to be so accurate. But, in a funny way, that may be to our advantage.’

‘How?’

‘Because it buys us some time. The reptile will have to go to ground for a while. No blushing young virgin’s going to march up the aisle with him now, are they? When can I see the files?’

‘I’ll get copies sent over to you straight away.’ She scribbled down the Barnes address on the back of a business card and passed it to him. ‘This is where I’m based for the moment.’

As she stood up to go, he put his hand on her arm. ‘Surely you don’t have to rush off? Stay and finish your drink.’

She smiled, shaking her head. ‘Gotta go. They’ll be wondering where I am. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, my office at eight a.m. OK?’

He returned her smile, although he looked disappointed, and gave her a mock salute.

‘Ay, ay, ma’am. Anything you say. As always.’

Early the next morning, Tartaglia headed down the corridor towards the office he was once again sharing with DI Gary Jones. On his way in, he had picked up a bacon sarni and a cup of good, strong cappuccino from the local deli, looking forward to tucking into both of them at his desk undisturbed before the morning briefing. Jones was out until lunchtime and he would have the room to himself, for a change. Approaching Clarke’s office, he heard voices and laughter coming from inside. The door was half-open door and he saw Steele sitting behind the desk, talking to someone hidden from view. As he passed by, Steele turned and caught his eye.

‘Mark, there you are. Can you come in here for a minute?’

Tartaglia pushed back the door and saw a familiar figure in an expensive-looking suit lounging casually against the windowsill next to Steele. The man gave him a wide grin.

‘Hi there, Mark. How are you these days?’

Fuck. Dr Patrick Kennedy. The profiler who had nearly screwed up the Barton case. Feeling instantly suspicious, Tartaglia waited in the doorway for Steele to say something.

‘Patrick’s just been telling me that you’ve worked together before on another case.’

Kennedy was still grinning. ‘Yes, Mark and I are old friends.’

‘Patrick’s going to assist us with this one,’ Steele said, seemingly unaware that anything was wrong.

Unable to trust himself to reply, Tartaglia said nothing, staring hard at Kennedy. He hadn’t changed at all. Glossy and smug, with his thick mane of hair – an indecent amount of hair for a real man, according to Clarke, who was thinning on top – Kennedy looked more like a game show host than a university professor, particularly inappropriate in the context of Clarke’s dingy, threadbare office. Had Steele brought Kennedy in herself? Or was the decision down to Cornish, something that wouldn’t surprise him at all?

‘Patrick needs to see the places where the girls died,’ she continued. ‘Can you give him the guided tour?’

‘I was supposed to be trying to track down Marion Spear’s family this morning,’ he said as levelly as possible.

‘Get someone else to do it. Patrick’s part of the team now and you’re the best person to bring him up-to-date.’

‘I don’t have a car.’ It was a lame excuse but he couldn’t think of anything better.

Kennedy pulled out a set of keys from his jacket pocket and jangled them at Tartaglia. ‘Let’s take mine. I’ll drive; you navigate. You can fill me in on the way.’

Increasingly impatient and angry, Tartaglia sat in the passenger seat of Kennedy’s old, dark green Morgan, which was parked in front of St Sebastian’s, the scene of Gemma Kramer’s murder. Kennedy had been gone for almost three quarters of an hour. There was little to see inside the church and Tartaglia was sure he must be deliberately spinning it all out in some pathetic show of power. The car radio was out of commission, the aerial snapped off, and the only cassettes Tartaglia could find were the soundtracks to
Phantom of the Opera
and
Les Misérables
, both of which would be torture. Short of making pointless calls or playing games on his mobile, he had nothing to do. Perhaps he should have gone with Kennedy into the church but he had already had more than enough of Kennedy’s company and comments on the case.

Everything about Kennedy grated. He was so self-seeking, so arrogant, so unashamedly sure of himself. Earlier, a small posse of photographers and reporters had been hanging around outside the gates of the car park in Barnes. Instead of ignoring them and driving away like any sensible person, Kennedy had stopped and rolled down the window to talk to them, also waving cheerily at a well-known actor who lived next door who had come out to walk his dog. Whether or not the actor had a clue who Kennedy was, the reporters lapped it up. When asked by one of them if he was now engaged on profiling ‘The Bridegroom’ case, Kennedy winked and smiled enigmatically, with a ‘no comment’ that any decent reporter would take as absolute confirmation. Remembering how Kennedy had courted publicity in the Barton case, Tartaglia wondered if Kennedy had actually tipped them off. Whether true or not, photos of Kennedy’s mug would be plastered all over the evening papers. It was amusing to think what Cornish, who hated any form of publicity, would make of that.