Die With Me (15 page)

Tartaglia strode into room three at Ealing Police Station, where a youngish-looking man and Donovan were seated opposite each other at the table, engrossed in conversation.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Tartaglia said, banging the door closed with his heel.

Donovan gave Tartaglia an enquiring look but the man smiled and shrugged good-humouredly as if he had all the time in the world.

‘Not a problem,’ the man said. ‘Sergeant Donovan has been taking good care of me. I was in the middle of explaining what happened.’

‘This is Adam Zaleski,’ Donovan said. ‘He’s just been telling me about the man he saw running away from the church where Gemma Kramer died.’

Zaleski gave Donovan another easy smile and leant back in his chair, pushing his small, steel-rimmed glasses up his nose. Young, slim, with very short dark hair, wet from the rain outside, he was dressed in a sober grey suit and plain, navy tie, clearly on his way in to the office.

Tartaglia dumped his helmet and gloves on the floor in the corner and fumbled to unzip his soaking jacket. It was a relief to take it off for a while and he shook it energetically a few times to get rid of the water clinging to the surface, before hanging it on the coat rack behind the door. In spite of the waterproofs, he felt as though the freezing rain outside had penetrated right through to his skin. His cheeks smarted in the stuffy warmth of the small room, his hands still like blocks of ice.

The day had started badly. For some reason he had overslept, waking with a churning stomach and a thick head. No doubt the greasy takeaway he had shared with Donovan the previous evening was something to do with it, as well as the half bottle of Barolo he had polished off on his own after she had gone, trying to obliterate Fiona Blake from his thoughts. To make matters worse, it had been raining heavily when he left the flat this morning. Still dark outside, the roads were slick as a skidpan, and the traffic was much heavier than normal.

He hated being late; hated others being late too. It was unforgivable. But as he came back to the table, he saw from the clock by the door that it was worse than he had imagined. He should have been there nearly three-quarters of an hour ago. He sighed and shook his head, angry with himself, as he sat down next to Donovan opposite Zaleski. He felt unfocused and out of control, desperate now for a large cup of strong, black coffee, a cigarette or three and something to eat. But that would have to wait until they finished with Zaleski. Hopefully the interview wouldn’t take long.

He took out a notebook and pen from his pocket, more for formality’s sake than anything else, as he could see that Donovan had been taking copious notes. As he did so, Zaleski stood up.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I remove my jacket. It’s like the Sahara in here.’ His voice was flat and accentless, the tone a little husky, as if he was getting over a cold.

Draping the jacket carefully over the back of his chair, Zaleski sat down again and folded his hands in front of him on the table, ready for business. He looked more muscular without the jacket, a pristine white shirt taut across his chest and upper arms.

Zaleski might be dying of heat but Tartaglia was still freezing. Rubbing his hands together to get his circulation going, Tartaglia leaned across the table. ‘Please can you take me through what you’ve already told Sergeant Donovan?’

‘Sure. It’s pretty simple, really,’ Zaleski said, shrugging again, giving Tartaglia a pleasant smile. ‘I was walking along Kenilworth Avenue. Just as I was passing St Sebastian’s, this bloke comes down the steps and out of the gate. He wasn’t looking where he was going and he nearly walked straight into me.’

‘You say “nearly”. Did he touch you at all?’

Zaleski looked puzzled. ‘Touch me?’

‘If this man proves to be the person we’re looking for and he had physical contact with you, we’ll need the clothes you were wearing for forensic examination.’

Zaleski nodded. ‘Oh, I see. No, he didn’t touch me. He just glared at me for a second, almost angry, as if it was my fault. Then he turned and walked off. After a moment, I heard a car engine start up further along the road and it drove away. I didn’t see anyone else around, so I presume it was his car.’

Zaleski spoke in a quiet, considered manner as if aware of the importance of each detail. He would come across well in court, if it ever came to that.

‘Did you see the car?’

‘Only its taillights disappearing. It was too dark.’

‘You said you thought it was a car, not a van,’ Donovan said.

‘That’s right. At least it didn’t sound like a van, if you know what I mean.’

‘But you got a good look at the man?’ Donovan prompted.

Zaleski nodded. ‘I’d say so. He was very close and there’s a streetlamp right by the entrance to the church. He’s white, clean-shaven, round about my age.’

‘Which is?’

‘Thirty-six.’

Tartaglia studied Zaleski. He was usually good at judging someone’s age but Zaleski looked barely thirty.

‘What about height?’

Zaleski paused for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’m about five ten. I’d say he was possibly a bit taller but I really can’t be sure. You see, it all happened so quickly.’

‘What about hair colour?’

‘Brown. Thick, I think, and longish.’

‘Brown?’

‘Well, certainly lighter than mine, although the streetlamp was one of those orange ones so it’s difficult to be precise.’

Tartaglia nodded. Although Zaleski seemed to have good recall of what had happened, orange street lighting made it almost impossible to read colours accurately. Mrs Brooke had described the man as having dark hair but then she had seen him from a distance in fading daylight. Some sort of mid-to-dark-brown was probably the best they could do for the moment.

‘You said you saw his face clearly. I don’t suppose you have any idea about eye colour?’

Zaleski considered for a moment, picking at a loose thread attached to his cuff button.

‘I’d say they were pale.’

‘Pale?’ Donovan said, checking her notes and scribbling something down.

‘Well, I think if he had dark eyes they would have stood out, even under the streetlamp. But now you ask, I’m not so sure.’

‘Of course, you only saw him briefly,’ Tartaglia said, aware that he’d pushed Zaleski too far. Sometimes, in a misguided effort to be helpful, witnesses remembered things that they hadn’t actually seen. Zaleski seemed eager to please and he realised he would have to tread more carefully.

‘Do you happen to remember what he was wearing?’

Zaleski grimaced. ‘It’s funny, but I really only remember his face, the way he looked at me. That’s what sticks in my mind. The rest is a bit of a blur, although I think he was dressed in a coat, the way you had him in the reconstruction, with his hands in the pockets. I haven’t a clue about the trousers or shoes. It all happened so quickly, you see. One minute he’s there, the next he’s gone.’

Although Zaleski seemed to feel that he should have remembered things more clearly, they were making progress. Mrs Brooke hadn’t been able to see the man’s features from where she was standing, whereas Zaleski had seen him up close, albeit for only a few seconds.

‘That’s perfectly understandable. Do you think you saw him well enough to help us put together an e-fit?’

‘I could certainly try.’

‘Assuming the car you heard was his, which way did he go?’

‘South.’

Donovan checked her notes. ‘You said, towards Popes Lane.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What time was this?’ Tartaglia asked.

‘Definitely after five. Maybe about five-fifteen. I was on my way over to pick up my car from the garage. It was there for a service and an MOT. They shut at half past and I was in a bit of a rush to get there in time, as I needed it that evening. I’ve given Sergeant Donovan the details, if you want to check it out. They may be able to remember exactly what time I arrived.’

They would check as a matter of course but the time fitted perfectly. Without doubt, Zaleski had seen Tom. Hopefully, he would be able to pick him out of a line-up if they ever found him.

‘Why didn’t you come forward sooner?’ Donovan asked. ‘Didn’t you see the witness appeal boards? They were dotted all around the streets close to the church.’

Zaleski shook his head. ‘I don’t normally go that way. I live right on the other side of Ealing and I work in South Ken. I only found out about what had happened when I watched
Crimewatch
last night.’

Tartaglia closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket. ‘What do you do for a living, Mr Zaleski?’

‘I’m a hypnotist.’

‘Stage shows, you mean?’ Tartaglia barely stifled his surprise. There was nothing showy or theatrical about Zaleski, qualities he imagined were par for the course for a hypnotist, which, in his view, was tantamount to being a fairground conjurer. If anything, Zaleski looked like a drone accountant or lawyer in one of the big City firms.

Zaleski grinned, clearly having come across such a reaction before. ‘Nothing glamorous like that. I’m not Paul McKenna. I just have a small practice. Perhaps I should be more ambitious, but I enjoy what I do and it pays the bills, so my bank manager’s happy.’

Tartaglia struggled to imagine how anybody could earn a living from such a profession. ‘What sort of things do you do?’

‘My main area of interest is in treating people with phobias and addictions. Claustrophobia, fear of flying, things like that. Most of the people who come to see me simply want to lose weight or stop smoking.’ He glanced at Donovan and smiled as if they shared some secret. ‘That’s my bread and butter. Luckily, there’s a lot of demand and I usually get good results. It normally only takes a few sessions.’

‘It’s that easy?’ Tartaglia said sceptically, acutely aware of the half-empty packet of cigarettes in his pocket and suddenly craving a smoke again.

‘It certainly works for some people,’ Donovan said, a little defensively, he thought, as she tucked away her notebook and pen in her bag. ‘A friend of mine’s company paid for all the smokers in the office to be hypnotised in order to get them to give up. She used to smoke twenty a day and she hasn’t touched one since.’

Tartaglia looked back at Zaleski, still unconvinced. ‘You really could make me give up smoking or drinking?’

Zaleski was smiling. ‘You’d have to want to give up. Real-life hypnosis is nothing like you see in films. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. I can’t take control of your mind.’

‘Then how does it work?’

‘Through suggestion. I just help you along the path you’ve already chosen.’ Zaleski reached behind into his jacket pocket for his wallet, plucked out a business card and handed it to Tartaglia. ‘Why don’t you try it some time?’

‘Maybe. If ever I find there’s something I can’t deal with myself. In the meantime, I think we’ve covered everything for now.’ He stood up, Zaleski and Donovan following suit. ‘I’ll get someone from my team to contact you later this morning about the e-fit. We’ll also need you to make a formal statement. Nowadays, we have to record these things both on video and audio.’

He walked Zaleski to the door and pointed him in the direction of the front desk and the way out. Once he was out of sight, Tartaglia crumpled up Zaleski’s business card and aimed it at the bin in the corner. Annoyingly, it landed just short.

‘You’re just like my father,’ Donovan said, walking over and scooping it up to drop it in the bin. ‘He never picks up anything.’

From what he remembered, Donovan’s father was an overweight, grey-bearded former English teacher in his early sixties. Only a few years older than Donovan, Tartaglia felt stung by the remark. ‘I can’t believe I’m anything like your father.’ He unhooked his jacket from the rack, where it had been dripping onto the lino, creating a small pool, and gave it a vigorous shake to get rid of the last few drops of water. ‘And you’re hardly Miss Tidy. Your house looked like a gypsy encampment last time I saw it.’

‘Well, I do try, but Claire totally defeats me. Don’t worry. You’re not really like Dad,’ she said, patting his arm and smiling as if she knew what he had been thinking.

He walked to the door and held it open for her impatiently. ‘There’s a Starbucks on the High Street just down the road from the estate agents where Marion Spear worked. If we get a move on, we’ve time for a quick breakfast before the estate agent opens.’

After several strong coffees and a plate of stodgy croissants, Tartaglia left Donovan to interview the owner of Grafton Estate Agents while he went to find Harry Angel, the man to whom Marion Spear had been showing a flat and the last person known to have seen her alive. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and the cold, wet air felt pleasantly fresh on his face after the fug of the café, helping to clear his head as he walked the few blocks to the bookshop where Angel worked.

From what he could tell from the slim case file, the local CID investigation into Marion Spear’s death had been cursory. Given the usual issues of finite resources and heavy workload, it wasn’t surprising. Harry Angel had been interviewed several times. But he had stuck to his story about leaving Marion Spear outside a flat in Carlton Road, Ealing. With no witnesses to contradict him, no apparent motive and nothing to link him to the crime scene, they had eventually given up on him.

No evidence of foul play had emerged. Marion had either fallen to her death by accident, which seemed unlikely owing to the height of the car park walls, or she had committed suicide. Although no note had been found, he could see why suicide had seemed the most plausible conclusion, with significant weight being attached to statements from both Spear’s mother and a flatmate, who said that Marion was unhappy and was finding it difficult to make friends in London. Nobody had looked beyond this fact, to consider how a lonely young woman like Marion might easily fall prey to something sinister.

Thinking of the photograph of Marion in the file, he wondered if he was right. She was attractive, in an unthreatening, girl-next-door way, young-looking for her thirty years, with shoulder-length, dark blonde hair and a wistful, sweet expression in her eyes. Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but she looked sad. She must have had admirers; someone would have taken an interest, surely. But according to the statements, Marion kept herself to herself and rarely went out. Kennedy was wrong about her not fitting the victim profile. Even if Marion Spear was a lot older than Gemma, Ellie and Laura, even if she had died in a different way, there was a common strand. They were all lonely, all isolated, all vulnerable in their different ways. Had Marion somehow caught Tom’s attention?

The bookshop where Angel worked was in the middle of the parade facing onto Ealing Green, a few doors along from the tapas bar where Tartaglia and Kennedy had lunched the day before. Sandwiched between a bright, organic food shop and a fancy French coffee bar, the bookshop seemed out of place, the front painted with several uneven layers of ancient-looking black gloss, the name ‘Soane Antiquarian Books’ written in faded gold lettering across the top.

He peered briefly through the partially misted-up window at the display of second-hand books on architecture and history of art, then tried pushing the door. It was locked and he noticed from the sign on the door that the shop wasn’t due to open for another half hour. But he could see a light on towards the back of the dim interior and somebody moving around inside. After trying the bell a few times, he gave up and rapped loudly on the door. A minute later, a tall, rangy man appeared out of the gloom. Studying Tartaglia suspiciously, he pointed at the sign, mouthing in slow motion, as if for an idiot, the words, ‘We’re closed.’ Tartaglia mouthed back the word ‘Police’, holding up his warrant card to the glass. The man hesitated, deciding what to do, then slowly unlocked the door, opening it a few inches and scanning the warrant card through the crack.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘Are you Harry Angel?’

The man hesitated again then nodded.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Mark Tartaglia. May I come in? I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to discuss things with you from the pavement.’

With a grudging look, Angel threw open the door and let him pass, a small bell attached to the door jingling violently.

The interior was cramped and barely warmer than outside, the dark red walls lined with shelves of hardbacks, some of them leather-bound. Some sort of strident modern opera was playing in the background and Tartaglia could smell freshly brewed coffee.

‘What’s this about?’ Angel asked, hands on hips. He was a couple of inches taller than Tartaglia, well over six foot, with large feet encased in a pair of ancient velvet slippers with a gold crest on the front. Dressed in faded jeans and a baggy dark green pullover, Angel was older than he had initially appeared, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with a pale, bony face and a sweep of floppy, dark reddish-brown hair. Although his height was a possible stumbling point, he just about matched Zaleski’s description of the man seen running from St Sebastian’s. It was a wild leap of imagination, Tartaglia knew, with nothing whatsoever to link the two, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of excitement.

‘It’s about Marion Spear. I understand you were one of the last people to see her alive.’

‘Marion Spear?’ Angel looked doubtful, as if he had never heard the name before, but Tartaglia had noticed a flicker of recognition cross his face.

‘Yes, Marion Spear. She fell to her death from a car park quite close to here, shortly after she had taken you to see a flat in Carlton Road. It was barely two years ago. Surely you haven’t forgotten?’

‘Shit.’ Angel wheeled around and bounded off out of sight towards the back of the shop.

The smell of something burning suddenly filled the air. Tartaglia followed him through the ranks of shelves to a long, narrow kitchen, built in an extension overlooking a small, overgrown garden. Angel was busy mopping up what appeared to be milk from the top of an old electric cooker, an expression of distaste puckering his thin lips. The lime green units and brown lino looked vintage seventies but the room was tidy and spotlessly clean, surprisingly at odds with Angel’s scruffy appearance.

‘Come on, Mr Angel. Marion Spear. I’m sure you remember who she is.’

Angel turned and glared at him. ‘Look, of course I remember, Inspector. I just don’t know what I can add to what I told you lot last time.’ He rinsed the cloth under the tap and went back to wiping the surface of the cooker until all traces of milk had disappeared.

‘I’d like to hear it for myself, if you don’t mind.’

Angel slapped the cloth down on the worktop. ‘Why are you bothering about her now?’

‘Because we’re looking into her death again.’

Angel tossed the milk pan into the sink and filled it with water. ‘That was the last of the bloody milk,’ he said, as if Tartaglia were to blame. ‘If you want to share my coffee, it’ll have to be black.’

‘Thanks, but I can manage without,’ Tartaglia said, eyeing the small glass cafetière of muddy-looking brown liquid next to the stove. The stuff at Starbucks had been like dishwater and Angel’s looked no better. Angel reached for a mug from the plate rack above the sink and poured a full cup. Taking a large gulp, he smacked his lips, then leaned back against the sink, cradling his mug. ‘OK. What can I tell you?’

‘Let’s start with how you knew Marion Spear.’

Angel sighed deeply as if it were all a waste of time. ‘I didn’t know her, per se. She just took me around a few flats.’ He took another mouthful of coffee before adding: ‘It wasn’t my fault that she chose to top herself straight after an appointment with me.’

‘Top herself? Why do you say that?’

Angel shrugged. ‘That’s what everyone thought at the time, if I remember correctly. Although, as I told your boys in blue, she seemed perfectly normal when I left her. Quite chirpy, actually.’ Angel scratched his beaky nose. ‘You think it was an accident?’

‘It’s possible, although unlikely.’

‘Yes, it didn’t seem right to me,’ he said, emphatically. ‘I know that car park. The walls are really high. All these new safety regulations, you know what it’s like. They build walls so you can’t even bloody see over them, let alone fall over them.’ He let the sentence hang then turned to Tartaglia with a look of surprise. ‘You think her death is suspicious?’

‘Let’s say, for the moment we’re keeping an open mind.’

‘Are you reopening the case?’

‘We’re just taking a fresh look.’

‘You’ve got new evidence?’

‘I didn’t say that, Mr Angel. I’m just checking things over, kicking the tyres, that’s all.’

Angel clearly didn’t believe him, raising his eyes to the ceiling and smiling. ‘Ah, I see where this is going. Muggins here was one of the last people to see her alive so you think I may have had something to do with it. It’s just like last time. You lot have no imagination.’

‘Naturally, I need to talk to you, which is why I’m here.’

Angel shook his head reprovingly. ‘As I said, I’ve been through those hoops before. Surely you can do better than that? I mean, what’s my motive? Or perhaps I’m just a psycho?’ He widened his eyes and bared his teeth, in a Norman Bates impersonation. ‘They couldn’t find anything on me last time, so why are you bothering?’

Although Angel seemed to think he’d been given a tough time, from what Tartaglia had seen of the file, there were many unanswered questions. Also, there hadn’t been a thorough check on Angel’s background or any real attempt to find a link between him and Marion beyond the obvious. No doubt, as the suicide theory gained credence, it hadn’t seemed necessary.

For the moment, he wanted to allay Angel’s suspicions. ‘It’s early days, Mr Angel. Before we jump to conclusions, perhaps you can tell me what you remember about Marion Spear.’

‘Look, I made a statement at the time and I’ve nothing new to add.’

‘I’ve read your statement but I’d like to hear what happened myself.’

Still grinning, as if it were all a bad joke, Angel took a large gulp of coffee then shrugged. ‘All right. From what I remember, she was a nice girl, a cheerful sort. I think she was relatively new to the job and eager to please. Not like some of the jaded old trouts in the estate agents around here who can’t be bothered to get off their fat arses. She took me to see a lot of flats but none of them was quite right.’

‘You said she seemed perfectly normal that day?’

He nodded. ‘She showed me a couple of new things that had just come on the books. That was it. Business as usual. First time I know something’s wrong is when one of your lot comes calling a couple of days later.’

Angel’s casual manner seemed a little forced and Tartaglia was sure he was hiding something. ‘Didn’t she mention where she was going next after seeing you? Didn’t she say anything?’

‘Why should she? I mean, I was just a client.’

‘Where did you think she was going?’

Angel gave another deep sigh, as if the whole subject bored him. ‘Search me. I assumed she was either going back to the office or to meet another client. Surely, you can check her diary.’

‘There were no further entries until late that afternoon. She should have gone straight back to the office but she didn’t.’ He studied Angel for a moment. ‘So, you had absolutely no idea where she went?’

Angel drained his mug and banged it down on the counter. ‘Of course not.’

‘Your relationship was purely professional?’

‘I’d hardly call it a relationship. The lady took me to see some flats, that’s all.’

‘You never saw her socially?’

There was a second’s hesitation. ‘We might have bumped into each other in the street. Maybe she came into the bookshop once or twice. But nothing more than that.’

Tartaglia hid the little stab of excitement he felt at hearing this. According to Angel’s original statement, Marion Spear had never set foot in the bookshop. They had only ever met at the estate agents where she worked or at a flat that she was showing him. Angel had been adamant on that point but he wasn’t going to remind him. ‘Was she interested in second-hand books on architecture?’ he asked, casually.

‘Amazing though it may seem, Inspector, a lot of people are. Anyway, we stock a wide variety of books.’

‘But I’m talking about Marion Spear. Why would she come in here?’

‘I seem to remember she liked reading.’

‘You discussed books together?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So, she came in to buy a book?’

‘Probably. It’s what people do.’

‘Or was it to see you, for some reason?’

Angel’s expression hardened and he folded his arms defensively. ‘Look, I really don’t remember. Maybe she didn’t come here.’

Tartaglia was sure he was lying. ‘But you just said that she did.’

‘I said that she might have done. I just don’t remember her doing so. Clear?’ Angel’s voice went up a tone.

‘It’s curious. You remember some things so very clearly, and other things, not at all.’ Angel puckered his lips but said nothing. Reminding himself that even if Angel had lied, it wasn’t evidence of anything, he decided to leave it for the moment. ‘Do you have a computer, Mr Angel?’

Angel looked surprised. ‘Yes, why?’

‘Is it here or at home?’

‘This is my home. I live upstairs.’

‘Where’s your computer?’

‘Down in the basement, where we pack up all the books we send out. We do a lot of business over the net.’

‘May I see it?’

Angel stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Be my guest. Although, I can’t see why it’s of any interest.’

Angel seemed almost relieved, which was puzzling. Maybe it was an act or maybe the subject of the computer didn’t bother him.

He followed Angel down a narrow flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged, windowless room that ran the full length of the shop. While the ground floor had the air of an old-fashioned library, the basement operation was modern and streamlined. Boxes full of books were neatly stacked and labelled in rows on the floor, with a shelving unit along one wall housing business stationery and thick rolls of bubble wrap and brown paper. Three cheap, pine trestle tables were lined up against the other wall for the actual packing. Judging by the number of books waiting to be wrapped and sent, the internet was an important source of business and the operation looked efficient. A new-looking Apple Mac sat on a small table in a corner, its screen dead. Short of asking Angel to turn it on and let him scan the hard drive, there was little Tartaglia could do without a warrant and there wasn’t sufficient grounds for that yet. Angel still seemed curiously relaxed. Maybe he had another computer elsewhere.