Die With Me (29 page)

‘Is there any particular woman that you can think of?’

Jenny sighed as if she didn’t know where to begin. ‘Take young Saffron over there,’ she jerked her head in the direction of the young girl at the front of the shop. ‘He was after her for a while and he was really persistent, even though she gave him absolutely no encouragement. Sadly for him, she thinks anything over twenty-five is ancient and books aren’t her thing anyway. In the end, he got the message.’

‘He made a nuisance of himself?’

‘Certainly he did. But then that new assistant of his came along and we haven’t seen him for dust.’

‘Annie Klein, you mean? Tall, lots of red hair?’ Donovan added for clarification, seeing the name meant nothing to Jenny.

Jenny wagged a stubby finger in the air. ‘That’s the one. I didn’t remember her name, although she comes in for coffee and stuff quite a lot. Yes, he seems very keen on her now, so Saffron’s off the hook.’

‘But you think he may have someone else as well?’

‘His sort always does. They can’t go without.’

‘Does Mr Angel often leave the shop unattended?’

‘Quite often, once or twice a week maybe. If he’s on one of his book-buying trips, he can be gone for the whole day. At least then he puts a proper note in the window saying he’s out. But if he’s only out for a short while, he leaves a note that says “Back soon” or something like that. It’s a bit of a cheek, I think, making people wait around when you’re actually not going to be back soon. I sometimes wonder if he’s trying to cover his back for some reason.’

‘That’s all very useful background information,’ Donovan said, noting the look of intense curiosity in Jenny’s eye. No doubt, like everyone who fancied themselves as an amateur detective, she would be watching Angel’s every move from now on, which was not a bad thing. ‘Would you be prepared to sign a statement saying that Mr Angel was out all that Wednesday afternoon?’

Jenny smiled. ‘Of course, I’d be delighted, if that’s what you need. I believe in speaking the truth. Has Harry done anything wrong?’ It was clear from her expression that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had and would love to know what it was. Luckily, she seemed to have no idea just how serious the matter was.

Donovan smiled. ‘I’m just making routine enquiries at the moment. There’s really nothing to worry about. But thank you very much for being so frank. I’ll send somebody over to see you later and take down your statement.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Angel said, glaring at Tartaglia across the small table, arms folded. ‘You’re just clutching at straws.’

Tartaglia shrugged. ‘Maybe. But when I came to see you, you told me you were in your shop all that Wednesday afternoon. We now learn otherwise. As you know, we’ve since obtained a signed statement from a witness who says that you weren’t where you said you were at the time in question.’

They were sitting in a meeting room in Ealing Police Station where Angel had been brought in for questioning. Clutching at straws was an accurate description. There was as yet no hard evidence to link Angel to any crime and Steele had taken some convincing about the need to interview Angel again. However, Kelly Goodhart’s body had been fished out of the Thames that morning, after the police had been alerted by the skipper of a passing barge. Her body had been taken by water to the small mortuary on the river at Wapping and a cursory examination had revealed that although she was wearing a wedding ring, there was no missing lock of hair. The ring would need to be identified by her family and a full toxicology report had been ordered to make sure that there was no GHB or similar substance in her system. But with the finding of her body, any residual suspicion that Sean Asher might be Tom had evaporated. Angel was the only suspect they had, the only one with a link, however tenuous, to both Marion Spear and, due to the location of his shop, the killing of Gemma Kramer. Once Donovan had outlined to Steele what Nicola Slade and Jenny Evans had both said, Steele had finally agreed to Tartaglia’s request to bring him in.

Initially shocked and resistant when two uniformed officers had appeared at his shop to escort him to the local station, Angel had caved in once he had learned of the witness statement and agreed to cooperate. Wightman had been sent to fetch Adam Zaleski to see if he could identify Angel as the man he had seen running away from the church where Gemma Kramer had died. Separately, Donovan had gone off to North London to find Nicola Slade in the hope that she might recognise Angel as Marion Spear’s mystery lover.

Angel’s expression hardened. ‘You say you have a witness. Who is it?’ He waited a moment for Tartaglia to respond before adding: ‘Is it Annie?’ Guilt was written all over his face.

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that at the moment, Mr Angel. But in my book, your not being where you say you were that afternoon looks suspicious. Why did you lie? According to the witness, you didn’t get back until well after five. As you know, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation and…’

Angel interrupted, looking outraged at the implication. ‘But I never even met that girl. How can you think I had anything to do with that?’

‘All you need to do is explain what exactly you were doing during the time in question. It’s very simple.’

‘I was with someone. Know what I mean?’ Angel raised his eyebrows and leaned towards him, adopting a man-to-man tone, as if his word in such matters should be sufficient.

‘What, all afternoon? I find that difficult to believe.’

Angel shrugged. ‘Well, you know how these things are. It started off as lunch but one thing led to another…’

‘All I’m interested in is eliminating you from our enquiries but I can’t until I can prove your alibi.’

Angel looked at him wearily. ‘See here, the lady’s married. I’ll give you her name but I can’t have your lot wading over there with their size twelves upsetting her, not to mention what her husband would do to both of us if he finds out what’s been going on. He’s a really nasty piece of work.’

‘I appreciate all of that, Mr Angel. Really I do. But you give me no option unless you cooperate.’

Angel slumped back in his chair and waved his hand in the air as if he was swatting a fly. ‘OK, OK. You can talk to her, but please, please tell your boys to be discreet.’

‘Of course we will. If the lady confirms what you say, there’ll be no need for her husband to hear of it,’ Tartaglia said, although as far as he was concerned, lovers’ alibis were rarely worth the paper they were printed on.

Angel raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, as if he could just picture the disaster about to fall down around him, then leaned forward again, giving him a name and address in a whisper, as if he imagined that the walls had ears. ‘And don’t go round there before nine in the morning or after six at night,’ he added. ‘That’s when the rottweiler’s home.’

‘Thank you,’ Tartaglia said, noting down the details and ignoring the instructions on timing. They would go when it suited them and if Angel got into trouble for his philandering, it was what he deserved. ‘You’ve been very cooperative, Mr Angel. Now, what about the identity parade?’

Angel sighed heavily. ‘I suppose I have no problems with that. Maybe then you’ll believe me when I say I never went near that bloody church.’

Just after nine o’clock that evening, Donovan arrived at Ealing Police Station with Nicola Slade. Nicola had been out having a drink with some friends in a nearby pub when Donovan reached her on her mobile and they had arranged for Donovan to pick her up outside the pub and drive her over to Ealing.

As they came into the reception area of Ealing Police Station, they met Tartaglia and Adam Zaleski emerging from the back, deep in conversation. Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Donovan turned to Nicola, explaining who Tartaglia was. Still talking, Zaleski gave her nothing more than a brief smile of recognition as he walked out the main door into the street with Tartaglia. Thank goodness Zaleski knew how to be discreet. The only person that she’d told, apart from her sister, was Yvette Dickenson. At least from past experience, she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut. Anyway, why should she tell Tartaglia? Nothing was going on between her and Zaleski and Tartaglia had hardly been forthcoming about his affair, or whatever it was, with Fiona Blake. Two could play at that game.

Donovan escorted Nicola into one of the meeting rooms where she was to wait until the line-up was ready. Nicola looked tired, dumping her bag down on the floor and sitting down heavily in a chair, not even bothering to undo her coat.

‘It’s strange being back in this part of town,’ she said with a sigh, scraping her wispy hair off her face with a hand. ‘It brings it all back, what happened to Marion, I mean. I still remember the way she looked that day, when I saw her with that man. She seemed really happy, positively glowing. I still can’t believe she’s dead.’

‘Let’s hope we’ve got the right man,’ Donovan said.

Nicola nodded. ‘Me too. I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you came to see me.’

Donovan patted her on the shoulder. ‘Don’t torture yourself. There’s nothing you could have done. Would you like a cup of coffee? I saw a vending machine in the hall.’

‘Please. Black with two sugars. I need something to pep me up.’

The vending machine along the corridor was new and not a type Donovan was used to, offering an extraordinary array of options. As she was working out whether to go for a ‘double espresso’ type coffee for Nicola, or to simply choose ‘normal with extra strength’, Tartaglia appeared beside her.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.

‘She’s in one of the meeting rooms,’ Donovan said, deciding to go for the large espresso. ‘They’ll be ready for her in a minute. What about you?’ She didn’t trust herself to mention Zaleski by name. ‘Any luck?’

He shook his head wearily. ‘Zaleski didn’t identify Angel. There was no doubt in his mind. The man he saw running out of the church wasn’t in the identity parade.’

‘That’s a shame. What about Mrs Brooke? Do you think it’s worth asking her to take a look?’

‘Dave’s bringing her in now but I don’t hold out a great deal of hope. Zaleski got a much better view of the man and he was positive he didn’t see him in the line-up. Angel’s still in the frame for Marion Spear but there’s nothing now to link him to Gemma Kramer.’

Donovan sighed. ‘Well, maybe we have to face the fact that the two deaths aren’t related after all.’

He nodded. ‘Let’s see what Nicola Slade comes up with first.’

Sipping her coffee, Nicola gazed through the one-way glass at the ten men lined up in front of her on the other side. She walked up and down then stopped in front of Harry Angel.

‘He looks familiar,’ she said, pushing her glasses up her small, turned-up nose and peering at him closely. ‘I’ve definitely seen him somewhere.’

‘Do you remember where?’ Donovan said, trying not to sound too interested.

She shook her head then turned to Donovan who was standing behind her. ‘I just don’t know. He looks familiar, as I said, but he’s not the man I saw that day with Marion.’

‘You’re sure? Please take your time.’

She sighed, staring hard again at the glass, biting her lip, as if she were forcing herself to remember something. Then she added: ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’ She bowed her head and started to cry, taking a tissue out of her bag and blowing her nose loudly, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I wanted to do this for Marion and I’ve failed.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ Donovan put an arm around her, feeling disappointed that Nicola hadn’t been more categorical about Angel. If only she could remember where she had seen him and if it was anything related to Marion Spear. But memory worked in funny ways and it was pointless putting pressure on her.

‘That’s the way it goes sometimes,’ Donovan said, steering her towards the door. ‘But it was worth a try. I’ll take you home when you’re ready. Maybe something will come back to you later.’

Steele slammed the door to her flat shut and double locked it, dumping her briefcase and umbrella down in a corner, kicking off her sodden shoes and throwing her coat over the back of the sofa, where it could dry by the radiator. It had been blowing a gale outside, sheets of almost horizontal rain coming down and she had got completely soaked on the walk from her car. At least the flat was warm and welcoming but she felt ragged, barely able to hold it together any longer. The orange glow from the streetlamp outside flooded the room and she drew the curtains quickly before switching on the light. She turned on the TV, flicking through the channels until she found a news programme and let it buzz away in the background, the noise making her feel less alone.

The answer machine was showing four messages and she hit the replay button. Twice the caller hung up. Then she heard Patrick Kennedy’s voice.

‘Carolyn, are you there? I’ve tried your mobile but it’s switched off. Sorry not to speak to you today but things have been a bit busy. It’s about eight. If you get home soonish, give me a call and let’s have a drink. I can pop over to you if you like.’

The fourth message was also from Kennedy, the message recorded about half an hour before and he sounded either tired or a bit drunk or possibly both, his words a little slurred.

‘It’s Patrick. Give me a call when you get home. I’m at the flat. I’ll be up till quite late. Gotta lot of papers to mark. It would be nice to talk.’

Talk? Men never wanted to talk, at least not when you needed them to, when you actually wanted to know what was going on in their peculiar minds. Patrick was more in touch with his feminine side than most, but what did they have to talk about? If it was the case, it could wait until morning. If it was about things more personal, she had no desire to talk at all. The less said about that the better, as far as she was concerned. He was trying to get closer to her, force his way in and she wanted to knock him back, make him go away. There was something about him that unnerved her, his keenness maybe, the fact that he was so thick-skinned, so sure about things that he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Affairs at work were par for the course when you did such long hours, when you had little or no personal life. How the hell did you ever meet anyone outside, someone who would understand the pressures and put up with them? Until Patrick came along and she was taken in by his swagger and intelligence, she had never so much as allowed herself a kiss, let alone anything more, with someone she worked with. She never wanted to put herself in such a position of weakness, give anyone that power over her. The fear of wagging tongues and knowing glances stopped her in her tracks before anything ever had a chance to get started. Patrick had been the only lapse. Perhaps underneath it all, he was bitter and was looking to exact some sort of revenge. She certainly should have realised that he wouldn’t let go of her that easily and she felt furious with herself for ever having brought him in on the case.

She deleted the messages and went into the kitchen. After hunting around in the fridge and cupboards, she found a pack of vegetarian moussaka in the freezer compartment and stuck it in the microwave. It was the last thing she felt like eating but there was nothing else in the flat and she felt far too tired to go out again. She looked at the half-full bottle of red wine standing on the counter. In the old days, the days before Barnes, she rarely ever had a drink in the evening. But it was becoming a habit. Sod it. She had to unwind somehow. She pulled out the stopper and poured herself a large glass, taking it with her into the bathroom, where she turned on the shower and started to undress.

If only she could get a few decent hours of sleep she’d be OK but she knew it was unlikely and she was dreading the battle ahead of her that night. Some people, who were not prone to worries, or perhaps with no conscience, seemed to fall asleep instantly. It was like a light being switched out. One minute they were talking and fully conscious, the next, they lay there completely comatose, as if they had been drugged. It was so unfair. Falling asleep had always been a struggle for her but it had got much worse since taking on this case. She’d been waking at around three in the morning, tied up in knots, thoughts spinning, unable to get back to sleep again until nearly five, when it was almost too late to bother. No wonder she felt so out of control, her emotions ebbing and flowing uncomfortably close to the surface. Just touch her and she’d bleed. It was all to do with those bloody emails. She could hear the unknown voice, imagine it whispering to her:
Do I fill your dreams? I’m the lover you’ve always longed for, the one who’ll never leave you.
However hard she tried to block them out, the nasty little words kept wriggling their way back into her mind.