Die With Me (2 page)

There was no justice in life. DI Mark Tartaglia gazed through the glass porthole of the door to the intensive care room where his boss, DCI Trevor Clarke, was stretched out in bed, at the centre of a spaghetti junction of wires and tubes. Apart from the dark strip of moustache visible beneath the oxygen mask, Clarke was unrecognisable. He’d been in a coma ever since the accident, his head held fast in a clamp to protect his injured spine, with his shattered pelvis and legs surrounded by a metal cage. Thank God he’d been wearing a helmet and proper clothing when he came off his motorbike. But the prognosis wasn’t good.

Sally-Anne, Clarke’s fiancée, sat by the bed, head bowed, one of Clarke’s huge hands cupped in hers. She was dressed in a bright pink and white checked suit, her long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail tied with a gold ribbon. Tartaglia had just missed her the day before when he had called by and he didn’t relish seeing her now. For a moment he thought about coming back later. But sod it, Clarke was one of his best mates; he had every right to be there too. He rapped on the glass panel, opened the door and went in.

Sally-Anne looked round briefly. Her eyes were red, rimmed with mascara. He wasn’t sure if she was crying for Clarke or for herself. Any woman who could up sticks and leave two small kids and a husband for another man, even if it was someone as nice as Clarke, had to be selfish beyond belief. And it had all happened so fast. Impulsive as always, Clarke never did things by halves. One minute she was just the new bit of squeeze, brought along for the occasional drink or bite to eat. Next thing, she was living in his flat in Clapham, he’d put her name on his mortgage and bank account and now that her divorce had come through, they were talking about getting hitched. But that was before the accident. Maybe Tartaglia was being harsh, but he couldn’t imagine Sally-Anne looking after a paraplegic for the rest of her life.

‘Any progress?’ Tartaglia asked, walking over to the foot of the bed. He’d already heard from Clarke’s nurse that there was none but he didn’t know what else to say. The longer Clarke stayed in a coma, the worse the likely outcome.

Sally-Anne shook her head, stroking the top of Clarke’s hand with her long pink nails, gazing fixedly at what could be seen of his face as if she were willing him to open his eyes or speak. Tartaglia wondered how long she had been there and what was going through her mind. Conversation seemed pointless and he stood behind her, feeling awkward, the silence punctuated by the bleeping of the monitors around the bed and the episodic shushing of the ventilator.

After a moment, Sally-Anne muttered something to Clarke that sounded like ‘see you later’, carefully placed his hand back on top of the sheet, patted it and stood up. Straightening her short skirt, she picked up her handbag and turned to Tartaglia, tears in her eyes.

‘I hate hospitals. I hate the smell. It reminds me of having my appendix out when I was a kid and I feel so bloody useless. What’s the point of coming? What good can I do? I mean, he doesn’t even know I’m here.’

Avoiding her gaze, Tartaglia shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was there because he cared about Clarke, because he wanted to see him, poor bastard. Of course it wouldn’t do Clarke any good, in the state he was in. But that wasn’t the point. Even if it was a pretty empty gesture, it was a mark of their friendship, of respect.

She took a tissue out of her bag and blew her nose. Her eyes fastened onto the motorbike helmet under Tartaglia’s arm. ‘Stupid prat. Why did Trevor have to go and buy that wretched bike? He hasn’t ridden one in years.’

Her tone was bitter and Tartaglia wondered if somehow she held him personally to blame, as he was close to Clarke and the only other member of the murder team to ride a motorbike. For a moment he thought of the gleaming red Ducati 999 in the hospital car park and felt almost guilty. But if Sally-Anne thought he’d led Clarke astray, she was wrong. Mid-life crisis was the phrase that came to mind. At least, that was the joke around the office. Six months, almost to the day, after Clarke’s wife left him for her yoga teacher, he’d started WeightWatchers and joined the local gym. Next came the motorbike, the contact lenses, the garish shirts and the leather jacket. What with the seventies-style moustache he refused to shave off, he was starting to look like one of the Village People. Just when they were all wondering if Clarke was going to come out of the closet, along came Sally-Anne, almost young enough to be his daughter, and his brief second stint as a single man was over. Clarke was well aware of what his work mates thought but he didn’t seem to mind. He was just happy and at peace with the world. That should have been all that mattered but Tartaglia couldn’t help worrying that Clarke would end up getting hurt.

Sally-Anne was still staring at Tartaglia, arms clasped tightly around her handbag. ‘You know, I just keep hoping he’s going to open his eyes. That’s all I want. Just to know that he’s still all there, up top, I mean. Anything else, we can learn to cope with together.’

The way she spoke sounded genuine and he felt a little surprised. Had he been wrong about her? Did she really love Clarke after all?

‘Have you thought about playing him some music?’ he said, feeling embarrassed, wanting to appear helpful if nothing else. ‘You know, something he’ll recognise. They say it sometimes works.’

‘That’s not a bad idea. I suppose anything’s worth a try, given the state he’s in. But a Walkman’s definitely out.’ Gulping, she gave a wry smile in Clarke’s direction. ‘I mean, where would you put the headphones?’

She had a point. You could barely make out Clarke’s eyes, let alone his ears. ‘What about one of those portable machines with speakers?’

She nodded slowly, as if he had said something important. ‘We’ve got one in the kitchen at home. I’ll bring it in this evening with some CDs. Trev really loves Celine Dion, for some weird reason. Maybe the sound of her voice will wake him up, even if mine won’t.’

Tartaglia grimaced. ‘God, I’d forgotten he has such crap taste in music. If I were you, I’d try and find something he really hates, like Eminem or 50 Cent. He’s such an ornery bastard, you should play it really loud right next to him and see what happens. That’ll do the trick, if anything will.’

She gave him a wistful smile. ‘I can just imagine him shouting at me to turn it off. That would be good, wouldn’t it?’

She looked up into his eyes for reassurance. Although her face had brightened momentarily, tears were still not far away. In spite of the make-up and sophisticated clothes, she looked like a young girl. She hesitated, head slightly to one side as if there was something else she wanted to say. But after a second she just touched his arm and walked past him, her impossibly high heels squeaking on the linoleum.

Opening the door, she glanced back at him. ‘Maybe see you tomorrow. If there’s any change before then, I’ll let you know.’

As the door closed behind her, Tartaglia’s mobile rang. In spite of the hundreds of notices plastered around the hospital, he had forgotten to switch it off. He flipped it open and heard the smooth tones of Detective Superintendent Clive Cornish, at the other end.

‘Are you with Trevor?’

‘Yes, but I’m about to leave.’

‘Any progress?’

‘None, I’m afraid,’ Tartaglia said, turning away and whispering into the mouthpiece, as if Clarke might somehow be able to hear him. ‘But at least he’s still alive.’

Cornish gave a heavy sigh. Clarke was well liked and respected by everybody, even Cornish, a man not normally known for warmth or feelings of compassion towards anyone. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Anyway, I need you over in Ealing right away, at a church called St Sebastian’s. It’s on South Street, just off the main drag. I’ve told Donovan to meet you there. There’s been a suspicious death. With Trevor out of action for the foreseeable future, you’re now the acting SIO.’

St Sebastian’s was set back a little above the road in a leafy residential area, a high wall with iron railings forming the boundary. Bathed in bright winter sunshine, the church was plain, with simple, graceful lines and tall stone pillars flanking the entrance. Georgian, Tartaglia thought, from the little he knew of architecture. It seemed at odds with the endless criss-cross streets of ornate Edwardian redbrick terraced houses that surrounded it, as if it had been taken from somewhere else and plonked down in the middle of Ealing by mistake.

DS Sam Donovan stood huddled by the main gate, hands jammed in her coat pockets, eyes watering and nose red from the cold.

‘You took your time,’ she said, shivering. ‘It’s bloody freezing out here and I’ll probably catch my death now.’

Tiny and slim, with brutally short, spiky brown hair that framed an otherwise pretty, regular-featured face, she was wearing a purple coat, baggy trousers and Doc Martens, her chin tucked into the thick folds of a long, woolly, lime green scarf, wrapped several times around her neck.

‘Sorry. The traffic was bad. I’ve been over at St Mary’s, seeing Trevor.’

‘How is he?’ she asked, ducking under the crime scene tape and leading the way up the steps to the churchyard.

‘Unfortunately, no change. But I’ll fill you in later.’ They started to walk together slowly up the long path that curved towards the church door. ‘Cornish said we’ve got an unexplained death.’

She nodded, taking a crumpled paper tissue from her pocket and blowing her nose loudly, as if she was trying to make a point. ‘I’ve had a full briefing with DI Duffey from the on-call MIT. The victim’s a fourteen-year-old girl called Gemma Kramer. She fell from the organ gallery inside the church two days ago. Ealing CID initially assumed it was an accident or suicide.’

‘Was there a note?’

‘No. But they didn’t find anything suspicious about her death and, after what sounds a pretty cursory forensic exam of the ground floor, the crime scene was released.’

‘Released?’ he said, pausing in the middle of the path and turning to her.

‘Afraid so. Apparently there’d been some pressure from the vicar and some locals to reopen the church for a christening.’

Shaking his head, he moved on again, Donovan at his side. Manning a cordon around a crime scene twenty-four hours a day was an expensive business and with resources stretched, as always, it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened.

‘So what changed their minds?’

‘Just after the church was cleaned up and reopened for business, a witness materialises out of the woodwork saying she saw the girl going into the church with a man a couple of hours before her body was found. Somebody then has the sense to ask for a full tox analysis and when the report comes back, it’s panic stations. The girl had traces of alcohol and GHB in her system.’

‘GHB? Was she sexually assaulted?’

‘Not according to DI Duffey. The crime scene was re-sealed immediately and a thorough forensic investigation was carried out of the whole church. It was only a cursory clean, hopefully not much damage was done.’

‘We should be thankful for small mercies, I suppose,’ he said, stopping again for a moment and glancing around the churchyard, wanting to get his bearings.

The graves were so crowded together that the whole area was almost entirely paved, with hardly a blade of grass to be seen. The stones were deeply weathered and most of the inscriptions barely readable. It seemed that nobody had been buried there for many years. He pulled out a Marlboro red from a pack in his pocket and turned his back to the wind to light it, letting the sun warm his face for a moment.

‘Is the girl local?’ he asked, taking a long, deep drag and watching the smoke gust away on the cold air.

‘No. She’s from Streatham. Nobody has a clue what she was doing around here.’

‘Tell me about the witness.’

‘I’ve just been to see her. She’s called Mrs Brooke. She’s in her late sixties or early seventies and lives a couple of streets away. Don’t be put off by her age,’ she added, no doubt seeing the sceptical look on his face. ‘She used to be a ladies fashion buyer for Selfridges and has quite an eye for detail. She seemed pretty reliable to me.’

He smiled. ‘OK. I’ll take your word for it. What time was all this?’

‘Just after four in the afternoon. She was going out to tea with a friend and was sitting in the shelter across the road, waiting for a bus.’

Turning, he saw an old-fashioned bus shelter about twenty yards away, partially obscured by a tight row of tombstones and an ancient yew tree.

‘According to Mrs Brooke, Gemma came from that direction,’ Donovan continued, pointing across him to the left. ‘The Tube’s that way, so we assume that’s how she got to Ealing. Gemma crossed the road and went up the steps into the churchyard. The next time Mrs Brooke looked over, she was kissing some bloke just over there, in front of the porch. She said she felt a bit shocked as Gemma looked very young and the man was quite a bit older. Then they went into the church together.’

‘Mrs Brooke saw all of this from where she was sitting?’

‘So she says.’

Tartaglia strode up the path to the porch and wheeled round. ‘According to her, they were standing here?’

‘That’s right.’

He looked back across the churchyard to the road in front. At four in the afternoon it would have been getting dark but the line of sight to the bus stop was relatively clear and he felt reassured that Mrs Brooke would have had a good view.

‘How old did she say the man was?’ Tartaglia asked, taking another pull on his cigarette as Donovan caught him up.

‘She thought he was in his thirties or possibly early forties, but she couldn’t be sure. He was a lot taller than Gemma, as he had to bend right down when he kissed her. Although, given that Gemma was apparently about my height, that’s not saying much.’ Donovan smiled. She was not much over five foot and proud of it.

He glanced back again at the shelter. Even at this time of day, the interior was shadowed. From where he was standing, it was almost impossible to see if anyone was inside. Maybe Gemma and her friend had been unaware that they were being observed, or maybe they didn’t care.

‘Do we have a description of the man?’