Die With Me (17 page)

The hall floor was awash with unopened post, directories still in their plastic wrappings piled haphazardly in a corner. With its stale smell, threadbare carpet and tatty green paint, the place reminded Donovan of her university digs. Panting, pausing for breath on each narrow landing, she laboured up the steep stairs to the fourth floor. She really must do something about the ciggies. She was only thirty-three and, according to the drivel she read in magazines on the rare occasions she found time to go to the hairdresser, she ought to be in her prime, ought to be able to gallop up the stairs like a thoroughbred and make wild, passionate love to some good-looking bloke waiting for her at the top. Pigs might fly, she thought, as she turned up the final flight of stairs.

Annie Klein stood in the open doorway, barefoot, wearing a frayed, embroidered silk dressing gown and little else. Bleary-eyed, she yawned and folded her arms, pulling the dressing gown tightly around her tall, skinny frame.

‘I was right,’ she said, smiling, staring down at Donovan. ‘You don’t look at all like a policeman. Not that I’d know much about that, apart from watching
The
Bill
.’

She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her voice was pleasant, quite deep, with a transatlantic twang that sounded a little fake. The dark, petrol blue of her dressing gown set off her pale skin and long, curly copper-coloured hair. Her eyes were a startling dark brown. She was at least six foot tall, Donovan realised, following her inside, wishing that she hadn’t chosen to wear flat boots that morning, not that heels would have made much difference. Usually her lack of height didn’t bother her but for some reason suddenly she felt at a disadvantage.

‘Do you feel like a cup of tea?’ Annie asked. ‘I was just about to make some when you rang the bell.’

‘Please.’ Donovan sat down in a deep, saggy armchair covered with a sparkly orange throw. After all the coffee she’d drunk that morning, she was buzzing. Tea would make a welcome change.

The large room was light, with sloping eaves and two windows, the walls painted a bright pink. A mirror hung above the small fireplace, decorated with gold-painted scallop shells, and a large, professional-looking black and white photograph of a young woman covered most of the wall next to it. It took Donovan several seconds to realise that the picture was of Annie, the make-up, clothes and lighting completely transforming her.

Watching her make tea in the tiny kitchen area in the corner of the room, Donovan was intrigued. Annie seemed far too exotic a creature to be working for Angel packing books.

‘Do you model?’ she asked, as Annie came over with two full mugs.

‘I used to. But I’m more interested in acting these days.’ She grimaced. ‘Sadly, it’s not that interested in me.’ She sat down on the sofa opposite, gracefully swinging her long legs up underneath her and tucking the folds of her dressing gown tightly around her feet.

‘I understand you work part-time at Soane Books.’

Annie hesitated, taking a sip of tea. ‘Well… not officially. What I mean is, Harry pays me cash and I don’t declare it.’

Donovan smiled, hoping to put her at ease. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not interested in that. How long have you worked there?’

‘Just a few months. The internet business has really taken off and Harry can’t cope on his own.’

‘Do you know if he had any help in the shop a couple of years ago?’

Annie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but you’d better ask him. Anyway, why do you want to know?’

‘We’re investigating the death of a woman called Marion Spear.’

Annie looked doubtful. ‘What’s this got to do with Harry?’

‘Mr Angel was one of her clients. I just need to get some basic details so that we can eliminate him from our enquiries.’

‘Harry knows you’re here?’

‘Oh, yes. He gave us your name and address.’ It was stretching the truth but Annie didn’t seem the suspicious type. By the time she found out that Angel wasn’t at all keen for her to talk to the police, it would be too late.

Annie seemed easily reassured and smiled. ‘Well then, I suppose there’s no harm my talking to you.’

‘As I said, I just want a bit of background, that’s all. Perhaps you can start by telling me how often you work at the shop?’

‘It depends. I’ve got a lot of free time at the moment and Harry’s pretty laid-back about when I come and go.’

‘You’re there most days?’

‘On and off if it’s busy, when I haven’t got auditions.’

It seemed a cosy arrangement and Donovan got the impression that Harry Angel was more of a friend than a boss. ‘Have you known each other long?’

Annie smiled and took another sip of tea. ‘A few years, actually.’

‘You had a relationship?’ Donovan asked, catching a certain look in her eyes and reading between the lines.

‘Well, I wouldn’t really call it that. We went out a few times but it didn’t work out.’

‘Why was that?’

Annie took refuge in her tea. ‘Look. I don’t want to talk out of school. Harry’s a decent guy.’

‘But it didn’t work out.’

Annie sighed and shook her head. ‘No.’ She took a long sip of tea and, after a moment, added: ‘Harry’s a bit intense. Gets carried away too quickly and I wasn’t after anything serious.’

‘Intense?’

Annie brushed away a long lock of hair that had fallen across her face. ‘Yeah. You know how guys can be.’

Apart from a spotty fifth-form admirer who haunted the school gates waiting for her to come out, Donovan had little personal experience of such things. Somehow, since then, she’d failed to inspire intensity in any man. But, thinking about it, maybe that was no bad thing. Obsession was unhealthy, particularly when it was one-way. Give her a normal, down-to-earth bloke any day. Although they seemed to be pretty thin on the ground and, thinking of Richard, her ex, ‘normal’ didn’t exactly make the earth move.

‘Can you be more specific?’ Donovan asked.

Annie hesitated. ‘Well, he used to leave little notes and poems at night under the windscreen wiper of my car. I had a car in those days, you see.’

‘Anonymous notes, you mean?’

Annie nodded. ‘I’d come out the next morning and find them waiting for me. Of course, I knew they were from him, even though he wouldn’t admit it.’

‘You think he was checking up on you? Watching you?’

Annie shrugged as if she didn’t mind. ‘Maybe. I hadn’t really thought of it like that.’

‘What did the notes say?’

‘Oh, they were just a few lines. Sort of… well…’ she furrowed her brow, searching for the word, ‘… sort of enigmatic.’

‘They weren’t threatening?’

Annie looked surprised at the idea. ‘No way. I think they were supposed to be kind of romantic.’

‘Did he do anything else?’

She giggled. ‘He left a dollar bill under the wiper once but I never worked out what he meant by it.’

Any initial disadvantage she had felt when first meeting Annie swiftly evaporated. Annie might have the advantage in terms of height and looks but she seemed out of touch with reality. Even if she hadn’t found Angel’s behaviour peculiar, let alone threatening, in Donovan’s book he had all the makings of a stalker. Also, although she had only glimpsed Angel briefly, she had to agree with Tartaglia. In poor light, Angel might easily fit the description given by Zaleski.

‘So, you called a halt to things?’

‘Yeah. He kept ringing me for a while but eventually he got the message.’

‘How did you get back in touch?’

‘I was looking for some part-time work and I answered an ad he’d put in the local paper. I thought twice about it when I realised who it was, I can tell you. But I needed the money and he seemed pretty cool about things.’ She giggled again, looking down at her mug. ‘Actually, I get the feeling he’s still pretty keen on me.’

‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ Donovan asked, finding it impossible to fathom Annie’s attitude. Her manner was so ridiculously open and easy-going, so trusting. It reminded Donovan of the way Marion Spear had been described and she felt increasingly concerned.

Annie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Why should it? Harry’s a sweetie, really, and I can handle it.’ She uncoiled herself from the sofa and stood up. ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’

Donovan shook her head and put her mug down on the floor beside her chair. It was still almost full, the tea so weak it was little more than water mixed with milk and now lukewarm. ‘What about family and friends? Who does Mr Angel see regularly?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ Annie said, walking over to the kitchen area and switching on the kettle. ‘He never talks about his family or anyone in particular. He’s real private.’

‘But surely he gets phone calls at work.’

‘I’m stuck down in the basement most of the time and I can’t hear anything. There’s an answer-machine upstairs, so there’s no need to take messages.’

‘So, you don’t know if he’s got a girlfriend?’

Annie turned back to Donovan with a smile. ‘If he has, it sure isn’t anything serious. Anyway, he wouldn’t tell me. I mean, it’d spoil his chances, wouldn’t it?’

Donovan waited while Annie finished making her tea and came back to the sofa. ‘Just to recap; you’ve never heard him mention Marion Spear.’

Annie shook her head, sitting down again. ‘You said this woman died. What happened?’

Donovan decided to give her the bare facts. It might give Annie a much-needed jolt and help her to remember things more clearly. If nothing else, it was worth putting her on her guard about Harry Angel.

‘She fell to her death from the top storey of a car park near where she worked. It’s quite close to the bookshop. The Coroner recorded an open verdict but we’re now looking into it again.’

Annie looked blank. ‘You haven’t told me what Harry’s got to do with any of this.’

‘We’re trying to trace Marion Spear’s final movements. He was one of the last people to see her on the day she died. She showed him a flat in Carlton Road in Ealing but we don’t know where she went after that.’

Annie looked puzzled. ‘Harry looking at flats? Are you sure?’

‘Why does that surprise you?’

Annie seemed embarrassed, as if she had said the wrong thing, coiling a long strand of hair around her finger. ‘Well, when his granddad died, he left Harry the shop. The upstairs rooms had been used for storage and were in quite a state. But Harry cleaned the place out, gave it all a lick of paint and moved in.’

‘When was this?’

‘I’m not sure, but Harry was already living there when I first met him. I think he had moved in quite recently, as I remember the smell of the paint. It was overwhelming.’

According to the file, Harry had given the shop address when Marion Spear died. ‘Maybe he decided he wanted a change.’

Annie shook her head. ‘He’s never talked about wanting to move. I mean, why would he? The space over the shop is enormous and all he has to do is roll downstairs to work in the morning. I wish I had it that easy.’

Feeling increasingly impatient, Donovan realised she was going to have to spell it out for Annie. ‘An hour after the appointment with Mr Angel, Marion Spear was dead.’

Annie stared at her. ‘Surely you can’t think Harry had anything to do with it? I know he’s a bit eccentric but he means well.’ She started to chew one of her long fingernails, shaking her head slowly as she mulled it over. ‘I don’t know what he was doing, going to see a flat with that woman, but I know he wouldn’t harm a fly.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Donovan said. She’d done her best and there was no point in pushing Annie further, as she clearly refused to entertain any suspicions about Angel. She stood up to go. ‘Just one more question. Were you working at the shop last Wednesday afternoon?’

Annie paused for a moment, thinking back, then shook her head. ‘Not Wednesday. I had an audition in Hammersmith.’

‘So, you didn’t see Mr Angel at all on Wednesday?’

‘No.’

‘If you’re not there, what does he do if he has to go out?’

‘He normally puts a note up on the door saying “Back in five minutes”. It’s a bit of a con because he’s usually gone longer than that, but it means that people tend to come back.’

Donovan picked up her bag, took out a card and handed it to Annie. ‘Thanks for being so helpful. If you remember anything else, would you give me a call?’

Annie took the card with the delight of a child being handed a sweet. Clearly fond of Angel, she appeared to be unaware of the implications of some of the things she had said. Still wondering how a woman of roughly her own age could be such an ingénue, Donovan hoped Annie wouldn’t be foolish enough to repeat the conversation verbatim to Angel and put him on his guard. Simple Annie might be, but she was right about one thing, Donovan was sure; Angel wasn’t interested in looking at flats. He was personally interested in Marion Spear, something he’d successfully hidden from the previous investigation.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dear Carolyn,

I hope you don’t mind first names but I hate formalities, don’t you? Also, I feel I already know you, even though we haven’t yet met – I certainly look forward to that pleasure one day very soon. For the moment, though, let me congratulate you on your performance last night on Crimewatch. You looked good and you struck just the right note, I thought. Well done for keeping just a few interesting details back from the public. We wouldn’t want them knowing all our little secrets, would we? Just so you know it’s me writing this and not some cheap imitation trying to get your attention, you could have mentioned Gemma’s long, silky brown hair. I think of her every time I stroke that lovely lock. She’s very dear to me, you know. But hey, I’m a fickle sort of guy. You know that already, don’t you? I think you understand me. Perhaps to you, I’d be true. Perhaps. But we can talk about that another time – when we meet. I’m straying from the point. Getting back to the show last night, people should be praised when they do something well. You deserve to be kissed for it, by a man who knows how. I, too, deserve praise, don’t you think? I’m very good at what I do; I’m getting away with murder!

With fondest wishes

Yours (dare I say, your?)
Tom

Steele swivelled round in her chair to face Tartaglia, expressionless. ‘So, what do you make of it?’ Her tone was businesslike, without any trace of emotion, as if she were asking his opinion about a run-of-the-mill communiqué.

It was early evening and she had called him into her office, taking care to shut the door behind them, which was unusual. She had never had anything private to discuss with him until now, never solicited his opinion about anything major so far and he felt surprised and a little bewildered that she had sought him out now. The email left him momentarily speechless, not sure what to say, other than the obvious platitudes. Angry on her behalf, feeling a spark of unaccustomed concern for her, he was amazed at the barefaced cheek of it. The cocky, sexual overtones were particularly revolting. He had no idea if Steele lived alone or if she had a partner. Notwithstanding the general resentment he felt for her, he was instantly worried, wondering how, as a woman, she was affected by it, whether or not she felt intimidated.

Even with all her years of experience with the Met, seeing the darker side of humanity on a daily basis, emails from a serial killer were not run of the mill. It had to touch her in some manner. She had to feel something. But she was giving nothing away, matter-of-factly treating what had happened as if it were all part of the normal workday routine. Although perhaps it was all an act for his benefit, trying to show how tough she could be.

She sat very upright, mouth taut, face a pale, blank canvas, looking at him, waiting for his response. He struggled to find the right words and failed. ‘Did you mention in
Crimewatch
that he calls himself Tom?’

She nodded. ‘I decided to do so, just in case either it really is his name or nickname, or might ring a bell with someone.’

‘When did you receive the email?’

‘About an hour ago. Of course it’s untraceable.’

He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall, studying her closely. But there was still no sign of emotion in her eyes. An hour ago? She had been dealing with it on her own for a full hour, without saying anything to the members of her team in the room outside? How could she keep it all to herself? She was extraordinary. Clarke would have been out of his office like a rocket, hopping mad or excited, or both, wanting to share it, wanting to get everyone’s view.

‘I’ve spoken to the lads at Newlands Park. According to them, sending emails like this is a piece of piss. All Tom has to do is drive around with a laptop in his car and tap into any unsecured network. Apparently, there are thousands and thousands of official and unofficial wi-fi hotspots all over London.’

‘What about the email address?’

‘He’s probably set up a sack-load of them especially for the purpose. There’s no way of tracing him at all.’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Are they sure?’

‘That’s what they said. Of course they’ll have a go, but they told me not to expect anything.’

She sighed, stifling a yawn, again as if they were talking about something trivial. ‘Apparently, if we knew where he was when he was online, we might be able to trace the signal back to the modem, then trace the modem back to the place where the computer was purchased. But even if the computer’s not stolen, knowing our Tom, he’s unlikely to have given his real details to the shop, don’t you think? Anyway, if he’s moving around, as they suspect, it won’t work.’

‘Have you told Cornish?’

She nodded. ‘And I’m telling you and Gary, when he gets back. But nobody else needs to know. I can’t risk another leak to the press.’

As if stiff from sitting at the desk too long, she bowed her head, leaning forward in her chair, locking her fingers and stretching her arms out in front of her. Slim and lithe, with her sleek dark hair and green eyes, she reminded him of a cat. Like all cats, she was inscrutable. She did her duty as a boss but kept him at arm’s length wherever possible, as if she was wary of him.

He wasn’t expecting her to treat him the way Clarke had done – that easy, mutually rewarding relationship had been built up over several years. But he had expected something more of her. He’d heard good reports of her from people who had worked for her in the past, but as far as he could see, they were talking about a different person.

‘Now, tell me about what happened on the bridge,’ she said, tilting her chair back and putting her feet up on the bottom drawer of her desk, which was slightly open.

As he started to explain what had happened, he pictured the bridge in his mind, with the brown swelling water below, trying yet again to make sense of what had gone on. Was it really connected to the other girls? It was like trying to find your way in thick, drifting fog, he thought. Just when you managed to make out something familiar and got your bearings, another wave of fog would roll in and the landscape would become unrecognisable again. He wasn’t sure what he thought about any of it any more.

‘So, there’s nothing yet to link what happened to the killings?’ she said once he had finished.

He shook his head. ‘Not until we find the body.’

‘Why did CID call us?’

‘Some bright spark had been reading the papers and thought it wasn’t worth taking any chances. If it turns out to be Tom, they’ll deserve a medal.’

‘But we only have the witness’s word for what happened.’

‘CCTV footage from the bridge confirms what she saw. Some sort of incident definitely took place, although we have no clear visual of the man’s face. But I spoke to forensics and it seems as though they’ve retrieved some decent prints. Let’s hope that at least one will belong to him.’

Steele looked thoughtful. ‘The MO’s very different. But I suppose we must keep an open mind. Tom’s a clever sod and he’s hardly going to get away with the same routine after all the stuff in the media.’

‘But if Tom is responsible, why didn’t he refer to it in the email to you? You’d think he’d be bragging about it.’

She shrugged, her eyes flicking back to the screen. ‘The thought occurred to me, too, when I first read this shit,’ she said, distractedly. He caught a slight tensing in her face, as if it pained her to look at it. Perhaps it had affected her in some way after all. ‘But maybe he thinks we don’t yet know about what happened on the bridge.’

She had a point. In normal circumstances, the local CID would handle the investigation until it was clear that the death was suspicious. Given their heavy workload and the lack of a body, it was unlikely the bridge would have been closed down so quickly, if at all. Perhaps Tom had been counting on that.

‘But if it is him, why choose Hammersmith Bridge?’ he said. ‘Unless he
wants
us to find out about it?’

For a moment she said nothing, still staring at the screen, fingers steepled under her chin as if she was thinking it all through. Then she reached for the mouse, closed down the email and turned to face him. ‘I’m going to get Patrick’s opinion on it. Maybe he can shed some light on all this. Now, tell me about Ealing, this morning,’ she said briskly, as if wanting to get off the subject of Kennedy. ‘I hear the witness had some useful information.’

‘Yes. He seems to have had a good look at the man and the e-fit should come out well.’

‘I also hear you’ve been stirring things up with a man called Harry Angel. He’s made a complaint to the Borough Commander. He claims you were harassing him.’

Surprised that Angel had taken things so far, so quickly, Tartaglia shrugged. ‘He didn’t like my line of questioning.’

‘Is this to do with the Marion Spear case?’

He nodded.

‘Why are you chasing after that, when we’ve so much on our plate already?’

‘I’ve told you, I think she could be an early victim.’

‘But Marion Spear doesn’t fit the victim profile.’

It was as if Kennedy himself was talking. ‘I haven’t seen Dr Kennedy’s written report yet,’ he said, trying to contain his resentment.

‘Don’t be pedantic, Mark. You know what he thinks.’

‘Yes, and he’s jumping to the wrong conclusion.’

She tensed as if he had criticised her personally. ‘Tom goes for young girls. Marion Spear was thirty. She doesn’t fit.’

‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence that the three victims we know about were all in their teens. Maybe there are others we don’t yet know about who weren’t so young.’

‘There’s no time to speculate about what he might have done. We’ve got to stick to what we know.’

‘If he only goes for young girls, why did he write you that email?’ He was clutching at straws but somehow he had to convince her.

She coloured and her expression hardened as if somehow he had touched a nerve. ‘That’s different. The email is just a wind-up, to prove how clever he is.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘It doesn’t change the profile.’

He sighed with frustration. ‘OK. For argument’s sake, let’s take the three girls. I agree their age is a common factor. But there’s another one, which the profile ignores: personality type. They were all loners, all apparently depressed. All three had a history of being bullied at school and it was so bad that Ellie Best was on anti-depressants. With that background, they were all vulnerable and open to the idea of suicide. We know Marion Spear was depressed and lonely too. Yes, she’s older, but maybe her age is irrelevant or maybe he was less fussy before.’

‘We’re overloaded as it is, not even counting what’s just happened on the bridge. We haven’t got the resources to chase up every long shot.’

‘How else are we going to find him? Unless any new leads come in from
Crimewatch
, we’ve got nowhere with the three girls. He’s covered his tracks too well and we can’t find the link. If Marion Spear is an early victim, maybe he made mistakes.’

‘But you’ve got nothing, have you? Nothing concrete.’

‘Not yet. But I want to keep trying. I have a hunch.’ The minute the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.

She shook her head. ‘That’s not enough. Look, Mark. If you insist on following this up, it will have to be in your own time.’

He was about to reply that he would do just that when there was a knock and the door swung open to reveal Kennedy.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘With the bridge closed off, I had to go all around the houses via Putney to get here. Hope I’m not interrupting.’

‘Of course not, Patrick,’ Steele said, getting to her feet. ‘Mark and I had just finished.’

After the talk with Steele, Tartaglia had retreated to his office to try and finish the day’s paperwork. But he was soon forced to give up. It was useless. The heating was working overtime for a change and the room was like an oven. He couldn’t concentrate, as he thought about their conversation. To make matters worse, Gary Jones had just got back from following up a fruitless set of calls that had come in from
Crimewatch
. Several new ‘witnesses’ had come forward, claiming to have seen Gemma with Tom, not just at the church in Ealing but at various locations dotted all over the city. Some of them were cranks and time-wasters, some just wishful-thinkers, wanting to appear helpful. But none of the reports held water even at the most basic of levels. In addition, half of London, with a teenage daughter who used the internet, now seemed convinced that they might have come across Tom in a chat room somewhere. However loony some of the callers appeared, each call had to be properly investigated. But so far there were no genuine fresh leads. At least none of the calls had thrown up any evidence that Tom had been active outside the London area.

Sweating, feet up on the desk, shoes off, Jones was on the phone to what sounded like his brother, letting off steam at top volume about some rugby match or other. Built like a prop-forward gone to seed, with a thinning thatch of short fair hair, Jones dominated the cramped space with his sheer physical presence. Tartaglia felt hemmed in, almost claustrophobic, and he couldn’t hear himself think over the rich, booming voice. He got up from his desk and started to change into waterproofs, thinking of going to see Clarke on his way home, although he had no idea yet about whether Clarke would be fit to see him. As he picked up his keys and helmet, Donovan appeared in the doorway.

‘I’ve just got in. Fancy a drink? It’s on me, this time.’

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a corner of The Bull’s Head, each with a pint of Young’s Special, trying to ignore the buzz of speculation around them about what had happened on the bridge the night before.

‘Fucking Rasputin. I’ll bet he’s giving her more than just professional advice.’ Tartaglia gave Donovan a meaningful look and took a large swig of bitter.