Die With Me (12 page)

Outside, the temperature was only a few degrees above freezing and Tartaglia had been forced to switch on the engine to keep warm and to stop the windows from misting up completely. The car idled noisily, white smoke gusting from the exhaust. In spite of the gleaming paintwork and chrome trimmings, it felt as though it was on its last legs. Clunking and jerking, it had gasped its way around the tour of the two other London churches where the other girls had died. Every time Kennedy changed gear, it made alarming grinding sounds and it had nearly expired behind the car park where Marion Spear had fallen to her death. No doubt it spent a lot of time in an expensive repair shop, as Tartaglia couldn’t see Kennedy getting his manicured hands dirty under the bonnet.

Above the noise of the engine, Tartaglia heard the sound of someone singing. He looked up to see Kennedy sauntering down the church path towards him, swinging his briefcase back and forth like a child with a new toy.

‘Let’s grab a bite to eat. I’m absolutely famished,’ Kennedy said cheerfully, levering himself in through the driver’s door and automatically passing his briefcase to Tartaglia to hold. He slid down into the leather bucket seat and slammed the gear into first. As he tried to pull away, the car lurched forward and stalled.

He grunted. ‘Like all women, she’s a trifle temperamental.’

Tartaglia stared at him aghast. ‘She?’

Kennedy patted the steering wheel and grinned as he tried the ignition again. ‘Daisy, my motor. Mark, this is Daisy,’ he said, waving his hand expansively towards the rattling bonnet of the car as if he were making a formal introduction.

Tartaglia closed his eyes momentarily, stifling a groan. ‘We ought to head back to Barnes,’ he said, trying to ignore the pangs of hunger in his stomach. Even though it was almost two o’clock and he’d had nothing to eat since early that morning, starvation was preferable to another hour in Kennedy’s company.

‘I’ve got to eat,’ Kennedy replied emphatically, in the manner of someone not used to skipping a meal. ‘I’m sure Carolyn will understand if we’re not back pronto. I know a decent little tapas bar just around the corner. I’ll put it on expenses,’ he added, as if that was all that was needed. He clunked the car into gear again and they juddered away from the pavement.

Carolyn. It wasn’t the first time Kennedy had dropped her Christian name into the conversation and it felt as though he was trying to make a point. Steele had also used Kennedy’s Christian name and it appeared that she and Kennedy were already on pretty friendly terms, something that Tartaglia had been feeling increasingly annoyed about all morning.

The tapas bar was in a small parade of shops facing Ealing Green. Kennedy seemed to be a valued customer, the Spanish manager greeting him like a long-lost friend and offering them drinks on the house. Feeling churlish, Tartaglia insisted on a glass of tap water while Kennedy accepted a jumbo glass of house Rioja. Tartaglia wasn’t averse to the odd drink at lunchtime but he was buggered if he was going to relax and make merry with Kennedy. While they waited for two portions of mixed tapas, Tartaglia reached into his jacket pocket for a cigarette to calm himself and fill the silence. As he pulled out his lighter and packet of Marlboro reds, Kennedy shook his head, smiling and pointing at the small ‘No Smoking’ sign immediately behind Tartaglia on the wall. Inwardly seething, Tartaglia zipped away the pack and took a long sip of water. Such a stance was surprising, given most Spaniards’ love of good, strong, tobacco anywhere and at any time of day. But there were puritans in every race. This was what it would soon be like, once the smoking ban came into force. Sanctimonious pricks like Kennedy would have a field day.

‘Aren’t you interested to know what I think?’ Kennedy asked.

‘Of course,’ Tartaglia said, as politely as possible. He might as well listen. Steele would be getting the full story when they got back to Barnes and it would be important to be prepared. ‘I just know how you experts like to take your time, consider everything carefully, before you give us an opinion.’

Kennedy relaxed back in his chair. ‘Sure. I’ve only got the barest of details at the moment. But I can give you some off-the-cuff comments… which might help you. I’ve been up all night reading the files and it’s pretty fascinating stuff.’ He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, as if waiting for some sort of encouragement.

Tartaglia steeled himself. ‘So, what have you found out?’

Kennedy sucked in his breath and was silent for a moment as if he was considering the question carefully. The mannerism was something Tartaglia remembered from the past. It had seemed a put-on then and it still seemed fake, but he said nothing. After a moment, Kennedy leaned forwards, planted his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Well, the locations, the churches are particularly interesting.’

‘What about the car park?’

Kennedy shook his head. ‘I think we can forget that one. It doesn’t fit in any respect.’

‘But Marion Spear fell to her death like the others and it’s just around the corner from where Gemma Kramer died. Surely that warrants closer investigation?’

‘What’s the point?’ Kennedy shrugged.

‘I was hoping you’d tell me, Dr Kennedy. You’re the one with the imagination.’

Kennedy smiled. ‘Psychological insight, you mean. Think of Cinderella. If the shoe don’t fit, no amount of trying it on will change things.’

Tartaglia looked away for a moment, resisting the impulse to smack him. The fact that Kennedy was prepared to dismiss Marion Spear’s death so categorically was enough to give him fresh hope. Kennedy had been wrong in the past and there was a good chance he was wrong now. Even before hearing his view, Tartaglia had been determined to carry on looking into what had happened to her, at least until they had strong evidence to rule her out. He had managed to get hold of her mother’s phone number and, whatever Kennedy said, he was going to call her as soon as he got back to the office. He just hoped Kennedy wouldn’t try and queer the pitch with Steele.

‘I just think it’s worth following up,’ he said quietly, meeting Kennedy’s gaze. ‘That’s all.’

Kennedy shook his head. ‘Square pegs and round holes. Don’t waste your time on it.’

Tartaglia glanced away again, watching the manager unload what looked like their food from the dumb waiter behind the bar. Just sit back and listen, don’t argue, Tartaglia told himself, as the manager came bustling over with the assorted plates of tapas. It wasn’t worth risking World War Three at this point.

‘Let’s go back to the three confirmed victims,’ Kennedy said, loading his plate with slices of ham and more than his fair share of hot squid in tomato sauce without waiting for Tartaglia. Taking a large bite, Kennedy pronounced the squid delicious. ‘The fact that they all died in churches has a particular significance for our killer. Let’s call him Tom, although of course that’s not his real name.’ He shovelled more squid into his mouth.

‘You don’t think it’s just part of the act, the way he attracts the girls, making them think they’re going through some sort of religious ceremony?’

Kennedy shook his head, struggling to speak, mouth still full. ‘No. I think… actually… it means something particular to him… maybe some sort of “V” sign at the church and the establishment. I’m sure he had a religious upbringing and I think the profanity appeals to him. It’s a sort of personal joke.’

Tartaglia’s personal theory was that Tom had chosen churches because they were places that would lull the girls into a false sense of security, but Kennedy’s idea was interesting and not implausible. He spooned some prawns in garlic sauce onto his plate and waited for Kennedy to continue.

‘Look, we have three girls, all roughly the same age,’ Kennedy said, between mouthfuls. ‘We have to ask ourselves, why does he choose
them
? What makes them vulnerable? Why are they falling prey?’

Tartaglia shrugged, helping himself to a few small slices of cured ham and olives. ‘You tell me.’

Kennedy was silent for a moment as if he was formulating the theory. ‘It’s sexual, of course. All about control and dominance. These poor little darlings are easy pickings. No doubt he believes they deserve their fate. Although he doesn’t sexually assault them per se, killing them, watching them die, is his equivalent. He may even achieve orgasm when he does it, although my guess is that he’s impotent.’

‘No trace of semen was found at the crime scene.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Whether he has a wank or not, it’s still sexual. He’s like those perverts who watch snuff movies. Only, he wants it live. And now he’s got a taste for it, he’s going to keep going back for more, possibly developing his little fantasy as he perfects his skills. I’m sure he thinks he’s so clever that he won’t be caught.’

‘Really?’ Tartaglia said flatly, trying what little Kennedy had left of the ham. Kennedy was spouting the usual serial killer stuff that you could find in any station bookshop.

‘He’s also bloody ballsy,’ Kennedy said, stabbing the air with his knife. ‘I’ll give him that. He’s taking a big risk that he won’t be disturbed, although that possibly adds to the excitement. This is a highly organised individual, someone calm and methodical in everything he does. He plans the killings down to the last detail. He’s also a good communicator and highly literate, judging from the emails. He pitches them just right for each girl.’

Annoyingly, Tartaglia found himself agreeing with Kennedy again, although he would rather be punched in the face than say so. ‘Maybe he has had a good education. But how does that help us find him? What about his age, background, formative life experiences, shoe size and inside leg measurement? That’s what you profilers are so good at working out. What do you see in your crystal ball?’

‘No need to be facetious, Mark. You and I are old friends. We can both take credit for catching Michael Barton.’

Tartaglia shook his head in disbelief. ‘You really think you can take credit for Barton?’

‘Naturally,’ Kennedy replied, with a disingenuous smile, using his napkin to wipe a trace of tomato sauce from his lips. ‘I know we’ve had our little disagreements but we were all part of the winning team that caught the reptile.’ Noting Tartaglia’s expression, he added: ‘Anyway, let’s not waste energy raking over history. Regarding this case, I’ll need some time to put together a full profile on Tom. But you’re looking at a very different type of individual to Barton. Our Tom’s a classic psychopath.’

Tartaglia sighed. ‘Yes, yes. He feels no remorse or empathy with the victim. They are just a means to an end and he has no conscience. Tell me something I don’t know.’

Kennedy forced an indulgent smile, looking like a teacher trying to deal with a difficult pupil. ‘Well, judging from the emails, I’d say this one was a grammar school boy or possibly privately educated. That should help you narrow the search when you eventually find some suspects.’

‘That’s an interesting theory,’ Tartaglia said flatly. He finished what was left of the ham and added some butter bean salad to his plate, trying to block out Kennedy from his consciousness, wishing he had allowed himself a glass of wine to go with it and dull the pain.

‘Look, it’s always about resources, isn’t it?’ Kennedy continued, oblivious. ‘Once Carolyn does
Crimewatch
tonight, you’re going to be inundated. You know what it’s like? Too much information, most of it useless, and not enough manpower or hours in the day. You’re going to have to focus. I’m telling you, don’t waste your time on the car park girl.’ He wagged his finger at Tartaglia, with a knowing grin. ‘I know you. You haven’t given up on her, have you? Just stick with the three girls and find out what they have in common, how it was Tom came across them.’

‘That’s what we’re already doing,’ Tartaglia said, scraping up some beans from his plate, trying not to let Kennedy rile him further.

‘There have got to be similarities,’ Kennedy said emphatically. He tossed back his wine and waved his empty glass in the air until he caught the manager’s attention. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’ he asked Tartaglia, as the manager came over with the bottle.

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t either. You’re driving.’

‘Lighten up, Mark. One more won’t hurt. I’m a big guy and I can take it.’ Kennedy patted his chest with satisfaction as he watched the manager fill the glass to the brim.

As the manager moved away, Tartaglia could hold back no longer. ‘You know Tom’s going to try and do it again, don’t you? I’m sure he’s got several prospects lined up.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ Kennedy said, tipping the remains of the little bowls of tapas onto his plate. ‘With all the publicity, what girl in her right mind is going to go along with him now?’

Tartaglia slapped down his knife and fork on his plate. ‘But they’re NOT in their right mind, are they? That’s why they’re such easy prey.’

‘He’s been outed. Nobody’s going to fall for the suicide pact rubbish now.’

‘What do you think he’s going to do? Give up and go back to the day job? He’s a chameleon. He’ll adapt. Tom’s got a taste for killing. He’s going to have to satisfy the craving again somehow, even if he has to change the game.’

‘But as we know, most serial killers are creatures of habit.’

‘This man’s cleverer than most. Think about it. These young girls are just a piece of piss for him; they’re too easy. He’ll soon want something more challenging. The press hype may be the catalyst.’

‘If you’re right, that gives us an opportunity. He may screw up.’

‘Let’s hope so. I’m afraid I don’t think you’re going to have long to wait.’

Tom stared at the TV screen, smiling. Detective Chief Inspector Carolyn Steele was doing well, her husky voice hitting just the right note of gravity mixed with emotion, as she appealed for witnesses. Shame though about the boxy jacket and plain white blouse. They weren’t flattering. Maybe she thought it made her look businesslike, but a uniform would have been better, if that was the image she wanted. There was also something about a woman in uniform that was a real turn-on. For a moment he pictured Carolyn slowly undoing the buttons and peeling off the layers to music, down to stockings and suspenders and a skimpy black bra and thong.

It reminded him of a stag night he’d been to a few years before. There had been three strippers dressed up as WPCs with handcuffs and truncheons, two bottle-blondes and a brunette, all clapped-out slags, well past their sell-by date. Having taken off their clothes to indiscriminate drunken applause, the brunette had made a beeline for him, slithering her stinking, sweat-slippery body down onto his lap, asking if he wanted extras. She tried to cuff him to a chair but he smacked her hard and shoved her off him, throwing her onto the floor. She hit her face on something, drawing blood, and started screaming hysterically, threatening to call the cops. Everyone was roaring with laughter, even the other whores joined in. But in the end, he’d been forced to give the slag a whacking great tip to shut her up and leave him alone. The reek of her cheap perfume had stayed in his nose for days.

But there was nothing cheap about Carolyn Steele. She was a class act, just the sort of woman he liked. Her sleek black hair framed her broad face nicely and the make-up artist had dolled her up to look as good as Fiona Bruce. Better, in fact.

The camera cut to a crime scene reconstruction. A young girl, posing as Gemma Kramer, stood outside St Sebastian’s talking to a man dressed in a dark overcoat. It took him a few seconds to realise that the man was supposed to be him. What a joke. While the girl bore a passing resemblance to Gemma, the man was nothing like him. Wrong hair, wrong clothes, wrong build. Even his body language was wrong as he talked to Gemma, bending forwards to kiss her as if he actually enjoyed it. The fucking plods were way off the mark there. Couldn’t they get anything right? Details were so important. Details were what mattered.

The camera retreated, showing a panoramic view of the church. It was just as he recalled it, although he had never bothered to admire it from that angle. A head and shoulders photograph of Gemma appeared on the screen. She was wearing school uniform and looked even younger than he remembered. The sight of her sent a shiver of pleasure through him, taking him straight back. He closed his eyes, struggling to block out the droning commentary, trying to focus. What he would give to live each exquisite moment again. He could picture the real flesh and blood Gemma so clearly, he could almost touch her, smell her. The long brown hair, the fine down on her cheeks, the creamy skin with its sprinkling of freckles. Soon she would fade, details blurring, then bleaching into nothingness, like an old photograph, until she was of no use to him. As with the others, he would have to replace her. But for the moment, she was still fresh enough. In his mind, she looked at him with her clear blue eyes and held out her hand, enticing him forward. He smiled, and this time she smiled back. She wanted it as much as he did, the little bitch. He took her hand, feeling it cold in his, but she was still smiling, egging him on. As he drew her slowly into the dark interior of the church, he felt the rush of blood once again.