Die With Me (13 page)

Donovan pulled up outside Tartaglia’s flat in Shepherd’s Bush and killed the engine. She had been busy all day and had hardly set foot in the office. The only time she had caught sight of Tartaglia was on his way up the stairs, coming in from the trip with Kennedy as she made her way out of the building to follow up on what had proved to be another dead end. Pausing briefly on the half-landing, he had hurriedly sketched out what happened with Kennedy and they arranged to meet after work at his flat for a late drink, when they would have time to talk uninterrupted.

Although she was not on Clarke’s team at the time of the Barton investigation, she couldn’t help agreeing with Tartaglia: Kennedy seemed very pleased with himself. Somehow, he made them all feel as though they had a celebrity in their midst and Yvette Dickenson seemed particularly impressed, asking Kennedy to sign her copy of his latest book on profiling. He lapped it up as if it were his due, flashing his mouthful of brilliant white teeth and scribbling down a dedication in huge, loopy handwriting, with Yvette gazing at him like a teenage girl, even in her state. It was sick-making. However, Kennedy seemed to be oblivious to the stir he was causing, Steele being the prime focus of his attentions. Donovan couldn’t fathom the precise nature of their relationship but had decided that it definitely went beyond the purely professional, although Steele treated Kennedy more like an old friend than a lover. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed the way Kennedy looked at her. Maybe she wasn’t interested. It was going to be worth keeping a close watch on the pair.

Lights glimmered through the crack at the top of the shutters in Tartaglia’s sitting room but there was no response when she rang the bell. When she dialled his home number from her mobile, the answer machine clicked on. Maybe he’d given up on her or nipped out for a pint of milk or a quick drink on his own. But she was sure he’d be back. He wasn’t the type to forget an arrangement. A fine drizzle had set in and she climbed back into her car and turned on the engine to keep warm, eyes scanning the road in front while she waited.

Tartaglia had seemed more than usually on edge when she had seen him earlier. No doubt the hours spent with Kennedy had had something to do with it. But she sensed there was more to it than that. The tension between him and Steele was obvious to everyone, the atmosphere unpleasant and heavy like before a storm. Although they both went out of their way to be polite, each deferring almost unnecessarily to the other, they reminded her of a pair of dogs, hackles up, skirting warily around each other, spoiling for a fight. She just hoped for Tartaglia’s sake that he would be able to keep his temper under control and not do anything stupid.

Everything was Cornish’s fault and she didn’t blame Tartaglia for a second for feeling so bitter – no one did, certainly not those in Tartaglia’s immediate team. There had been no need to bring in Steele. But Cornish hadn’t the balls to oversee things himself and to let Tartaglia carry on running things. Self-preservation was Cornish’s motto and he had made sure that Steele’s neck was on the line, not his. If she succeeded in finding the killer, he would take ultimate credit for it. If she failed, he would step back and she would be the one blamed. Donovan wondered if Steele knew this, if she had had any choice in the matter.

She waited a few more minutes and was on the point of leaving a note and driving off when she caught sight of Tartaglia briefly illuminated under a street lamp, jogging around the corner at the far end of the road. Climbing out of the car, she popped the locks and sheltered under her umbrella as she watched him slog along the pavement towards her. As he spotted her, he waved.

‘Good thing I was late,’ she said, when he came up to her, panting. Hair soaked, water running down his face, he was wearing running shorts, trainers and a white T-shirt that stuck to his skin. Bloody hell, he looked great, even like that, she thought, hoping he couldn’t read her mind.

‘Sorry,’ he said, in between deep breaths, plastering his hair back off his face with his hand and stretching his legs. ‘Thought you’d been held up, so I went out for a run. Helps clear the mind.’

She followed him up the path to the front door. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you gave up the fags?’

He turned round and grinned, still out of breath. ‘What, like you, you mean? I saw you having a quick one in the car park this morning. Thought you’d stopped?’

‘Don’t give me a hard time. I need it at the moment. Look, I’ve brought you a present.’

‘What is it?’ he said, eyeing the plastic bag in her hand as he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

‘A tape of this evening’s appeal on
Crimewatch
. I went by my flat to collect it. In spite of what you said earlier, I thought you might like to see it.’

He gave her a withering look as they went inside. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’ He unlocked the door to his flat and held the door open for her.

‘Steele did a good job. Came across really well.’

‘I just hope it shakes out some new information,’ he said, closing the door behind them. ‘I’m going to take a shower. If the phone rings, can you answer it? It may be Sally-Anne.’

‘Any news?’

‘Sorry, I should have told you. She called earlier to say that Trevor came round a couple of hours ago.’

‘Thank God,’ she said, feeling an instant surge of relief. ‘That’s fantastic news.’

He was grinning at her. ‘And guess what, Sally-Anne played Eminem really loudly in his ear and after ten minutes he opened his eyes.’

She laughed, trying to picture the scene. ‘Typical Trevor. Did he yell at her to turn it off?’

‘Probably. It’s about the only fucking chink of light in the last twenty-four shitty hours. Sally-Anne said she’ll call back once she’s found out when I can visit.’ He waved vaguely in the direction of the sofa as he walked towards the door to the inner hall. ‘Put on some music and make yourself at home. I think there’s a bottle of decent white open in the fridge, or some red in the rack next to the sink. I won’t be long. Then maybe we can get something to eat. I’m starving.’

She put the package down on the glass and chrome coffee table, took off her coat and went into the kitchen, where she found an open bottle of Italian Gavi in the fridge. Pouring herself a glass, she took it back into the sitting room where she examined Tartaglia’s extraordinary music collection, which ranged from obscure Italian opera to hip-hop, finally selecting an old Moby CD. She slid it into the player and sat down on the comfortable leather chair by the window.

Gradually starting to unwind, she gazed around the room, searching for the slightest trace of female occupation. She hadn’t forgotten the scene in Dr Blake’s office. But there were no telltale signs. No signs of anything interesting at all. As usual, the flat was absurdly tidy, with none of the usual haphazardness, unconscious or deliberate, which she associated with other male colleagues and friends. Everything had a place and a function, from the long lines of DVDs, CDs and books grouped alphabetically on the shelves, to the neat rows of glasses, crockery, drinks and cooking ingredients in the kitchen cupboards. Compared to the overflowing, cosy house she shared with her sister, Tartaglia’s flat was clinical. No family photos, personal knick-knacks, objects of a sentimental nature brought home from a holiday or marking a particular relationship. Knowing him, it wasn’t that he couldn’t be bothered to make a home. It was a matter of deliberate choice.

Although the lack of clutter was alien to her, she liked the bare, white walls and the large black and white photograph over the fireplace. It was the only picture in the entire room. She got up, glass in hand, to take a closer look. It was simple but evocative. A young woman strolled down a sun-drenched, cobbled street, sweeping a lock of dark hair off her face. She seemed preoccupied by something, unaware of the photographer. Behind her was a high arched doorway, the name ‘Bar Toto’ hanging in large neon letters above it, some words in what looked like Latin carved deep into the stone to one side. Judging from the woman’s clothing and shoes, it had been taken sometime in the late fifties or early sixties. It reminded her of
La Dolce Vita
, the only Italian film she had ever seen. Apart from the fact that the picture was of somewhere in Italy, she had no idea why Tartaglia had chosen it, although the image was very striking.

As she continued to stare at it, losing herself in the scene, imagining a story behind it, the phone rang. She picked it up, hoping to hear Sally-Anne’s voice at the other end.

‘Is Mark there?’ a woman asked, in a light Scottish accent.

‘He’s taking a shower,’ she replied, instantly curious. Definitely not Fiona Blake.

There was a pause. ‘Will he be long?’

‘I don’t know. He’s just come back from a run. I’m Sam Donovan. I work with him,’ Donovan said, something in the woman’s tone compelling her to explain.

‘Ah.’ The woman sounded a little disappointed. ‘I’m Nicoletta, his sister. Could you please just let him know that I called and that we’re expecting him for lunch this Sunday. Tell him, no arguments. John and the kids want to see him and Elisa and Gianni and some friends are coming over. It’s all arranged.’

Wondering what Tartaglia’s reaction would be to such an order, Donovan put down the phone just as Tartaglia reappeared, barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose, open-necked shirt, vigorously rubbing his hair dry with a towel. Donovan relayed the message.

‘Shit,’ he said, lobbing the towel into the small hall, which led to the rest of the flat. ‘I’ve been with the murder squad for nearly three years and, whatever I say, Nicoletta still doesn’t get it. As far as she’s concerned, the case can get fucked. Sunday is sacrosanct and nothing stops a family get-together, not even somebody lying dead in a mortuary. I need a bloody drink.’

He went into the kitchen, returning with the bottle of wine and a large, full glass. He sank down in the middle of the sofa, exhaling loudly as he put his bare feet up heavily on the coffee table. ‘God, it’s been a bugger of a day. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be having to take orders from that prick, Kennedy.’

He looked rougher than she had seen him for a while, with dark shadows under his eyes, almost like bruises. Judging by the thick stubble on his chin, he hadn’t shaved since early morning. Perhaps all he needed was a few good nights of sleep, although there was little chance of that in the foreseeable future. She hoped that was all that was wrong with him.

She sat down again, kicking off her shoes and leaning forward to massage her tired feet. ‘You said Kennedy wanted to stop you looking into Marion Spear’s death.’

He nodded. ‘According to the expert, she doesn’t fit his victim profile. But I don’t give a flying fuck what he thinks. I still think it’s worth pursuing.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘In here and here,’ he said, pounding his heart and stomach with his fist. ‘Something a spineless idiot like Kennedy wouldn’t have a clue about.’

She was taken aback by the strength of the emotion in his dark eyes. She had never seen him like this before and she wasn’t sure why he cared so much. Tartaglia’s instincts were usually good but the policeman who solved a case on gut feel was a cliché reserved for detective novels. Maybe he was letting his hatred of Kennedy cloud his judgment. ‘Have you found out anything more?’

‘I’ve finally tracked down Marion’s mum. She’s still living up in Leicester, where Marion came from. She gave me some stuff on Marion’s background, although most of it I already knew from the file. Apparently, Marion had come down south to work as an estate agent, first in Acton and then in Ealing. On the day she died, she had taken a client to visit a flat. After that, nobody saw her again. The flat was quite close to the car park where she fell.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s another Mr Kipper.’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘The bloke was traced at the time and crossed off the list. But I’d still like to talk to him again and to the people in the estate agent’s. Reading through the file, the investigation seems pretty cursory to me. According to Marion’s mum, Marion didn’t know many people and had been feeling lonely living in London. When she died, she was thinking of going back home to Leicester.’

‘You really think she’s worth looking into?’

He nodded. ‘We’re grubbing around in the dark. Ellie Best’s computer was wiped clean and the only way to link her to the other deaths is the ring. Copies of the emails recovered from Laura Benedetti’s computer came in this afternoon but they tell us nothing. Surprise, surprise, they are almost identical to what we found on Gemma Kramer’s computer, although the killer called himself Sean instead of Tom. We have no clue how he got to the girls or who he is. We have fucking nada.’

‘Maybe
Crimewatch
will do the trick.’

He shrugged. ‘The response is usually great but with a complicated case like this it isn’t always straightforward. Take the Barton case. Loads of calls came in after Trevor appeared on TV and we spent a huge amount of time sifting through all the information and following it up. But in the end, none of it helped catch Barton.’

She started to feel a little depressed. ‘I still don’t see why you think it’s worth considering Marion Spear?’

He took a large gulp of wine, put the glass down on the table and folded his arms wearily. ‘It’s simple. Laura Benedetti wasn’t necessarily Tom’s first attempt at killing.’

‘She was the first that fits the pattern that we know of.’

‘Tom didn’t spring from nowhere as a fully-fledged psychopath. He must have killed, or tried to, before. There’s usually an escalation in what happens.’

‘But we’ve searched the records.’

‘We don’t know what we’re searching for. Take Michael Barton. He started off as a petty burglar who turned to rape.’

‘Are you saying Barton killed a woman by mistake?’

‘Although Barton’s attacks were becoming increasingly violent, when he set out that night I personally doubt he had murder in mind. He didn’t mean to strangle Jane Withers but she wouldn’t do what he wanted. Unlike the others, she kept screaming and struggling. We know from her autopsy that she fought hard. He had to subdue her and silence her, otherwise he risked being caught. In the process, he got carried away and what was supposed to be rape, turned into murder.’