Die With Me (25 page)

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

My Dear Carolyn,

Have you missed me? I know you’ve been thinking of me and I’ve certainly been thinking of you. Loads, and in ways that you can’t even begin to picture. What is it about you that draws me to you? Is it your lovely, silky dark hair and your white, white skin? I love your eyes, they’re like a cat’s and cats are such sensual, playful animals. But it’s so much more than that. I’m not superficial, truly I’m not. It’s not about looks, is it? You have something really special. Has anyone ever told you? I’m sure they have, I’m not so green that I believe I’m the first. But nobody will appreciate you quite like me. You know that, don’t you? Does it excite you to think of me? Does it make you yearn for me? Do I fill your dreams? I’m the lover you’ve always longed for, the one who’ll never leave you. Shall I come and see you? Would you like that? I don’t want to be impatient. I don’t want to push it until you’re ready. But I know it’s going to be so good, I can hardly wait. When you’re alone in your bed tonight, close your eyes and think of me there with you. I’m very, very good. The best you’ll ever have. Just close your eyes and imagine. The reality will be so much better.

Tomxxx

p.s. Have you found little Yolanda yet? She was nothing compared to you.

Steele stared at the screen, the words swimming in front of her. She felt sick, deeply shaken by what she had read. She had tried to get hold of Cornish but he had left the office and hadn’t arrived home yet. He also wasn’t answering his mobile and she left a message asking him to call her urgently. Tartaglia and Jones were out on the road somewhere but there was no point in speaking to them until they could see what she had in front of her. Besides, she was afraid her voice would give her away. She didn’t want either of them to know how she really felt.

The mention of Yolanda’s name was yet another pinprick. Her body had been officially identified earlier by her employer and her parents in Spain were being contacted. A search of Yolanda’s room had revealed nothing of interest and, unlike the previous girls, no suicide note of any shape or form could be found in the flat. Perhaps the routine had changed or perhaps, thinking about the canal scene Tartaglia had described, something had gone wrong. The two computers in Yolanda’s local library had been removed and sent away for analysis but Steele held out little hope of their providing much new information, let alone a link to Tom. He covered his tracks too well. He was untouchable.

She stood up and walked over to the window, gazing for a moment at the street below. It was dark outside and people were hurrying home from Barnes Station up the road, briefcases and shopping bags in hand. Lights were on in most of the houses opposite and where people had forgotten to close their curtains, she could see happy little domestic scenes, children playing or watching television, somebody cooking supper, somebody else arriving back from work. She felt as though she was somewhere remote, looking at another world that had nothing to do with her.

Somehow Tom knew how to press all the right buttons. But how could he? Was she so transparent to him, so typical of a woman of her age and background? Was it perhaps a lucky guess, had he hit the bull’s-eye by accident or had he talked to someone who knew her? She shivered. She felt that he was getting closer, moving nearer, in ever decreasing circles. He was toying with her, playing with her, but would he really come? Should she ask Cornish for protection? Or did Tom only want to frighten her? She was sure that he would know that he had got to her, that this is how she would react. Maybe he would be gloating, picturing her state of mind. She felt furious at the thought and impotent. But however much she tried to fight it, stop it getting to her, it was useless. The bastard knew where she was vulnerable.

Feeling close to tears, she walked over to the door, made sure it was properly closed, and locked it. She couldn’t risk anybody coming in at the moment. Flopping back down in her chair, she squeezed the bridge of her nose with her fingers, squeezed until it hurt and all she could focus on was the pain. She would not let herself cry, would not let them all see her like that. But she had to tell someone. She needed to talk and there was only person she could trust. Taking several deep breaths to calm herself, hoping that her voice wouldn’t give her away, she picked up the phone and punched in Kennedy’s number.

‘You’re in a right pickle, aren’t you, Mark?’ Clarke said, his face creasing into an awkward smile, clearly delighted that Tartaglia had come to seek his advice.

‘Nice of you to care. But you know me, I never like things easy.’

Clarke sighed heavily. ‘No, you’re a demanding bugger… even at the best of times.’

Tartaglia was perched next to Clarke’s bed on a small, hard chair, which he had had to carry in from a nearby waiting room, there being no chairs for visitors in the ward. Clarke lay beside him, flat on his back, attached to a drip, which Tartaglia presumed was to kill the pain, the lower half of his body still imprisoned under the large protective cage. Surrounded by a sea of cards, flowers and untouched baskets of fruit still in their cellophane, Clarke seemed in good spirits, considering everything. But his eyes were bloodshot and his long, boney face looked grey. He had been a big man but he had lost a considerable amount of weight, almost shrivelling overnight, and he had aged at least ten years. Tartaglia hoped that the shock on his face, when he’d first caught sight of Clarke, hadn’t shown.

A huge, fluffy pink teddy bear was tucked up under the sheets next to Clarke, a tag with the words: ‘Darling Trevor, I love you’ pinned to a silk bow around its neck. It was such a funny, incongruous sight that, if it wasn’t also so incredibly sad, Tartaglia would have been tempted to take a photo with his mobile for the team to see.

Although Clarke didn’t have his own room any longer, they had at least put him in a small ward, with only four beds, one of which was empty, and given him the end bay by one of the windows. Tartaglia had thought of pulling the curtains around the bed for privacy, but as the man next door was out for the count and snoring loudly and the one opposite seemed deeply engrossed in listening to something on a set of headphones, there didn’t seem much point.

‘So Trevor, what do you think?’ Tartaglia said, after a moment.

Clarke was silent, staring hard at the ceiling, as he pretended to give the matter further consideration. But Tartaglia wasn’t fooled. He had seen Clarke’s eyes light up as he recounted, blow by blow, the details of what had happened. Clarke was rarely slow to make up his mind, usually having a flash of insight or inspiration that usually took everybody by surprise and cut straight to the chase. But here he was, lying almost immobile in the bed, just savouring the moment and enjoying keeping Tartaglia dangling. Some things never changed.

‘Y’know, I wish they’d put an effing flatscreen up there,’ Clarke said. ‘I’m getting fed up with the view.’ His voice was laboured, words coming out a touch slurred and slower than his usual machine-gun-fire delivery. Tartaglia wondered if he had been wrong to come, wrong to trouble him with all of this.

‘I’m surprised Sally-Anne hasn’t rigged one up. She’d do anything for you, wouldn’t she?’

Clarke half smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m a lucky sod, aren’t I. Way more than I deserve. You should stop messing about. Get yourself a good woman like that.’

‘Quit fooling around, Trevor, and tell me what you think.’

Clarke turned his head slowly and glanced over at him. ‘You mean about Carolyn Steele?’

‘Stop teasing, Trevor, and spill the beans. I can see right through you.’

‘OK. OK. We’ll sort out the little matter of Carolyn later. What do I bloody think? Well… Other than I’d kill for a fag, and that I miss this flaming lark like nobody’s business… I think… you’re not looking in the right place.’

‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Trevor? I can easily come back another time.’

‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ Clarke growled. ‘This, and Sally-Anne, is all I got to keep me going.’ He paused and smacked his lips. ‘As I said, you’ve got it wrong somewhere.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Fucking sod’s law I smash m’self up when something interesting like this comes along.’ He sighed and reached over with his huge hand and patted Tartaglia’s knee. ‘Nice of you to come and see me, though. I was wondering how you were all getting on without me.’ He shifted his shoulders stiffly in the bed in preparation and pursed his lips. ‘Well, let’s start with Marion Spear. You’re dead right to link her to the others.’

Hearing Clarke say it brought instant relief. At least Clarke, the wisest of them all, didn’t think he was mad. ‘But there’s no real reason.’

‘Yeah there is, and you know it. If you want reminding or convincing again, she fell from a high spot and she matches the personality type. Just don’t give me all that crap that bloody Kennedy said. He talks the talk and walks the walk but you know he don’t know his arse from his elbow. What a fucking wanker he is.’ Clarke paused before going on. ‘Tell me this: why would a sweet girl like Marion Spear throw herself from a car park? She had her mum. She had a decent job. And she had a lover. Even if he is a fucking psycho, she didn’t know that.’

‘Maybe he dumped her.’

‘Maybe. Maybe she was so gutted she wanted to top herself. Although from what you say, I think she’d have gone for something that takes less courage… like pills or something that makes less of a mess. And good girls like her… with a mum like that… they would have left a note, see? She was an only child. Stands to reason she’s not going to make her final exit without telling her dear old mum why.’

‘What about the lover?’

Clarke gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘I’d put good money on him being Tom.’

‘You make it sound so simple.’

Clarke winced and shook his head slowly, taking his time before he replied. ‘It’s not rocket science. I just have a fresh pair of eyes, that’s all. It’s what Steele should be doing for you. Keeping her distance so she can give you that.’

‘She’s keeping her distance, all right.’

Clarke sighed. ‘Sam’s done a good job finding that flatmate. You tell her so from me.’ He reached over again and squeezed Tartaglia’s hand. ‘I miss you lot, you know.’

Tartaglia puckered his lips, fighting hard not to show how sad he felt, wondering if Clarke knew that he would probably never be coming back. He had heard from Sally-Anne that morning that although Clarke wasn’t paralysed, thank God, his legs were so damaged that the rest of his life was likely to be spent in a wheelchair or, at best, on crutches, unless the drugs and physio worked a miracle.

‘You mentioned any of this to Carolyn?’ Clarke said, after a moment.

‘No. I haven’t found the right moment.’

‘Yeah, she’s not listening is she… with that pussy Kennedy buzzing around… whispering sweet nothings in her ear. I can just imagine what he’s saying ’bout you and me. Won’t be pretty.’

‘You think I should tell her? I’d like to get Angel in and see if either Nicola Slade or Adam Zaleski can identify him.’

Clarke was momentarily silent again, rubbing his thick moustache slowly with his fingers as if it was good to still feel it there. ‘Don’t think you need to rush it. Even if she agrees… which she may well not, way things are going. Say one of them picks him out of a line up. What’s it going to give you? OK, so you now know he’s the one… and he’s effing guilty. What are you going to do about it? You’re not going to bang him to rights without proper… hard evidence, are you? He’s unlikely to go all wimpy and confess. You need something more. But I’m buggered if I know what.’

‘But if he was ID’d, we’d have grounds for a search warrant.’

Clarke shook his head and closed his eyes.

‘Really, Trevor. I think I should come back another time,’ Tartaglia said after a moment.

Clarke jerked his head round, looking at Tartaglia out of the corner of his eye. ‘Fuck off with that, will you? If you bleeding bugger off… I’ll never speak to you again. I swear.’

His tone and expression was so fierce that Tartaglia decided to let it go. He could see that it meant more to Clarke than anything at that moment.

‘What were you saying?’ Clarke said, a minute later.

‘About the search warrant.’

Clarke grunted. ‘So what if you persuade Steele and some frigging judge to let you have a go? You know me, always like to assume the worst and work backwards. What if you search his flat… and shop… and find nothing? Where are you then? From what you say, this Tom’s a right clever bastard. He’s not going to leave stuff lying around willy nilly for you to find. He’ll have it stashed away. Safe. Somewhere not at his main address. Nah, I think you’re going to have to sit tight… bide your time for a little longer. ’Til you see what comes out of this canal business.’

Tartaglia stifled a sigh. Clarke was right, of course. To move things forward, they needed some sort of a break but he had no idea where, or in what shape, it was going to come.

‘What about Kelly Goodhart, the woman on Hammersmith Bridge?’ Tartaglia said.

‘Like you… I’m pretty sure our Tom was in touch with her at some point. If you’re lucky… and you’ve always had the luck of the devil… not like me… he may even turn out to be the bloke who ran away. Don’t suppose the body’s turned up?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Typical. Father bloody Thames having fun with us as usual. But see here. You’re so wrapped up in all this. You’re forgetting about the three girls.’

‘Hardly.’

Clarke shook his head. ‘Yeah you are. You’ve gotta go back to square one. Go over your tracks again. See what you’ve missed.’

‘We’ve checked everything, over and over, the schools, the clubs they belonged to, their friends, everything.’

‘Leave it out Mark, it’s not good enough and you know it. You have to keep doing it… ’til you find the link… deliverymen… taxi drivers who may’ve taken them somewhere… dentists… doctors… all of that. You know the stuff. Even down to what bloody perfume and shampoo they used.’