Die With Me (30 page)

She showered quickly, put on a dressing gown and went into the kitchen, where the moussaka was steaming and bubbling in the microwave. She could smell it through the door and realised suddenly just how hungry she was. Turning it out onto a plate, burning the tips of her fingers as she did so, she topped up her wine, prepared a tray and carried it all into the sitting room, where
Sea of Love
, starring Al Pacino, was just starting on the TV. She’d seen it before but it didn’t matter. Anything would do. She sank into a chair, feet up on the coffee table, gazed at the flickering screen and wolfed down the moussaka, wishing suddenly that she’d bought a larger pack. Just as she finished, the phone rang.

If it was bloody Patrick again, she’d scream. She let it ring until the answer machine kicked in. She heard her message play over the speaker, followed by the click as the person at the other end hung up. Curious, she got up and dialled
1471
but the voice said that the caller’s number was withheld. It was bloody Patrick. Of course it was. It had to be. Who else would be calling her at that hour, not leaving a message, withholding their number? She knew what he was up to. He was checking up on her, trying to see if she had come home. How dare he. How fucking dare he. She put her hands to her face, biting back the tears.

Tartaglia was at home, about to get ready to go to bed, when Wightman called just before midnight.

‘There’s no sign of Kennedy, sir. I don’t know what it’s like with you, but it’s raining cats and dogs up here. Perhaps he got put off.’

‘Maybe he has other plans,’ Tartgaglia said, listening to the sound of the rain beating against his sitting-room window, wondering why Kennedy hadn’t shown. ‘What a shame. I was looking forward to your bringing him in. How long have you been there?’

‘The best part of two hours, sir. She came home just after ten. She was on her own and nobody’s been there since. Do you want us to wait a little longer?’

‘Is she still up?’

‘She’s just switched off the lights in the front room. She’s probably on her way to bed. Do you want me to go round the back and check?’

‘No. You and Nick go home and get some sleep. We’ll try again tomorrow.’

Steele lay in bed in the dark. Ignoring instructions on the packet, she had taken two Nytol half an hour before, washed down with the last inch of wine from the bottle. But drowsiness seemed far away. She still felt tense, muscles tight, thoughts buzzing around. When would the pills start to take effect? The wind was making a terrible noise outside, rattling the old sash window in her bedroom as if some invisible hand was shaking it. She would never get to sleep with that racket going on and she got up, found some tissues in the bathroom and wedged them down the sides until there was no possible movement or sound.

As she climbed back into bed, she heard the slam of the main front door of the house, followed by the heavy tread of her neighbour who lived in the flat on the ground floor, above. She listened as his footsteps moved around and, after a few minutes, the floorboards immediately overhead creaked as he went into his bedroom. Her curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle and, through the gap, she saw the light go on upstairs, illuminating the garden at the back like a floodlight. She waited for him to close his blinds and go to bed but after a moment, she heard the tramp of his feet out of the room again. After a minute, there was the distant sound of music from the front of the house.

She was never going to be able to sleep like this. She got out of bed and tried to pull the curtains shut but when she forced them together in the middle, she was left with a gap at either side, which seemed to let in even more light. They were pale cream and more decorative than practical. Her mother had made them for her as a Christmas present a couple of years before but had somehow got the measurements a little wrong. They were also thinly lined. It had never really bothered her quite as much as it did now but something would have to be done. She hadn’t the heart to replace them and maybe a set of blackout blinds behind the curtains would do the trick. Perhaps she could measure the window and order them over the phone. She certainly wouldn’t have a free moment to go into a shop for a while.

She climbed back into bed and stared at the light outside, willing it to go out, listening to the heavy bass beat coming from upstairs. It sounded like some sort of rap, relentlessly repetitive and she wondered how much longer she should give him before going up there and asking him to turn the bloody thing off. She was just on the point of getting out of bed when she saw a shadow cross the window. There was no mistaking it. Somebody was in the back garden.

For a moment she froze then got up and grabbed her dressing gown, which was lying across the end of her bed. Slipping it on quickly, she crept towards the window to take a look. She peered hard through the gap but saw nothing. Trembling, standing just behind the curtains, she waited in the dark listening. Shall I come and see you? Would you like that? Was he really out there? Would he try and break in? There were all sorts of strange noises coming from outside but it was impossible to tell what might be a footstep or what was the wind.

Her fingers felt for the window catch, checking that it was secure, that both stops were also in place. She waited for several minutes, wondering if someone was really standing out there on the other side. If she saw the shadow again, she’d dial
999
. But there was nothing. Perhaps she had imagined it. Maybe her state of mind was making her jumpy. The shadow could have been cast by the trees outside, blowing in the wind. Perhaps. She went over to the bed, pulled her duvet off and wrapped it tightly around her. After checking that all of the other windows in the flat were secure, she went into the sitting room and curled up in a tight ball on the sofa, listening.

The morning started badly. Still raining, the road was as slippery as grease and, as Tartaglia curved through the traffic around Hammersmith Broadway, a large, battered black
4x4
cut him up, accelerating and changing lanes without indicating, making him swerve and nearly come off the bike. He chased after it, swearing pointlessly into his visor, catching up with it again at the next set of lights and pulling alongside. He was about to rap his fist on the window and give the driver a piece of his mind when he saw that a young woman was at the wheel, a car-full of children in the back. As he glared at her through the streaming glass, she glanced over and gave him a sweet, fleeting smile, clearly unaware of what she’d done. As the light changed to green, she accelerated away into the distance, leaving him with a rankling sense of impotence.

He felt like that Greek who was forced to push a boulder up a hill every day only to have it fall back on him and roll down to the bottom each night. Nothing was giving, nothing going his way. With neither Zaleski nor Nicola identifying Angel, they had been forced to let Angel go and the look of smug triumph on Angel’s face as he got up to leave was burned on his mind. Predictably, the lover had provided an alibi. They would keep prodding but he didn’t hold out much hope of her altering her story for the moment, as she seemed quite smitten with Angel, for some inexplicable reason. As for Kennedy, it was sod’s law that he had decided on an evening in for a change.

As Tartaglia crossed the bridge and passed the spot where Kelly Goodhart had jumped to her death, he slowed and said a silent prayer for her, adding one for Sean Asher. At least for him, there was still hope.

He parked his bike in the car park at the back of the office and walked up the stairs to the first floor. Shaking the rain off his helmet, he pushed open the door to find Cornish hovering awkwardly in the corridor beyond, hands in pockets.

‘There you are, Mark. I was looking out of the window and saw you drive in. Do you mind coming into Carolyn’s office for a minute?’ He sucked in his lips, looking embarrassed for some reason.

‘Sure. What’s the problem?’ he asked, wondering if perhaps Steele had made a complaint about him.

‘There’s been another email.’ Cornish lowered his voice to a whisper, talking out of the corner of his mouth as they walked together towards her office. ‘Between you and me, I think she’s a bit upset. I thought you might know what to say. You know her better than I.’

Tartaglia was tempted to tell him that he didn’t know her at all but there wasn’t much point. The subtleties of relationships were beyond Cornish.

They found Steele sitting behind her desk reading through some papers. As they entered the room, she glanced up briefly. She looked even paler than usual, her eyes bloodshot and puffy as if she hadn’t slept for days.

‘What do you make of this,’ Cornish said, picking up a piece of paper from the corner of the desk and passing it to Tartaglia.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

My dearest Carolyn,

I came to you last night while you were asleep. You looked really beautiful, your dark head on the pillow, breathing deeply. You were like a child, so innocent and fragrant, I wanted to wrap myself around you and bury my face in your neck and breasts. Were you dreaming of me? I’m sure you were. I watched you for a while. I couldn’t resist kissing your cheek. I just had to taste your skin, touch it with my teeth, ever so gently, I promise. You were so soft and you smelt of something sweet and heady. Is it roses? You must have felt my touch, as you stirred and gave a little moan. I didn’t want to wake you, so I crept away. Our time will come very, very soon, my darling. Not much longer for us to wait now.

Your Tomxxx

Anybody, any woman receiving such vile, repellent rubbish would feel furious, if not threatened. Studying the taut lines of Steele’s face, looking beyond her lack of open reaction, Tartaglia saw finally how much it had touched her and how shaken she was by it. Had Tom really gone to her flat? Surely, if he had been there, actually got inside by the sound of things, she would know. It seemed far-fetched, possibly nothing more than another wind-up. He suddenly wondered if Kennedy had had anything to do with it.

‘Of course it may all be made up,’ Cornish said matter-of-factly, trying to make light of the matter for Steele’s benefit. ‘But we’ve sent a forensic team over to Carolyn’s flat to go through everything, inside and out. Perhaps you can stay with friends until this is over.’

‘Over?’ she said, her voice hoarse as if she’d been talking a lot. ‘And when will that be? I have no intention of being scared out of my flat.’

The muscles of her face were rigid, her mouth drawn into a hard, thin line as if it was the only way she could control it. Tartaglia wanted to tell her that nobody would think badly of her if she let herself go, everybody would understand and sympathise. But she would only misinterpret his motives, particularly with Cornish there, looking unperturbed and immaculate in his dark suit as if the stains of life never touched him.

Tartaglia glanced out the window for a moment, watching the rain run down the glass, Clarke’s words coming back to him. Charm her, get her on your side. But it was far too late for that.

‘There’s something you both need to know,’ he said. There was no better time. Slowly and carefully he told them about Kennedy and what he and Wightman had witnessed outside Steele’s flat. As he spoke, he saw Steele’s expression harden. The colour returned to her face until she had a fierce patch of red on each cheek as though she had been slapped.

‘You’ve been spying on me,’ she said, her voice catching in her throat. Her eyes swivelled to Cornish. ‘Did you know about this?’

‘He knew nothing about it,’ Tartaglia said, before Cornish could reply. ‘I was going to tell him if it happened again.’

‘Happened again?’

‘Dr Kennedy didn’t appear last night. Dave and Nick waited for a couple of hours…’

She looked horrified. ‘You involved Dave and Nick in this?’

‘Like me, they just wanted to know you were safe.’

‘So, that’s who was round the back of my flat, in the garden last night.’

‘Somebody was in your back garden last night? You didn’t mention this, Carolyn,’ Cornish said, a little accusatorily.

Steele compressed her lips tightly and didn’t reply.

‘Nobody went round the back,’ Tartglia said. ‘They just kept an eye from the road. You can ask them, if you want.’

‘Well somebody was there,’ she said. ‘I’m positive. Didn’t they see anyone?’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘It has to be Dr Kennedy. They must have missed him somehow.’

Although clearly shocked, it was interesting that she wasn’t trying to defend Kennedy or deny that he could have done such a thing.

‘So, when did all this start?’ she said, her voice betraying the emotion beneath.

‘After the first two emails. I was concerned for your safety.’

‘No you bloody weren’t.’

‘Come, come Carolyn,’ Cornish said, with a little embarrassed cough. ‘We’re all under a lot of pressure at the moment. I agree it’s not orthodox and Mark should have checked with me first but…’

Steele ignored him, eyes fixed on Tartaglia. ‘You were just out to spy on Patrick… Dr Kennedy and me. Weren’t you? It’s got nothing to do with the bloody emails.’

Tartaglia shook his head. ‘As I said, I was concerned about you and it’s a very good thing I was. If I hadn’t been, we’d have no idea what Dr Kennedy gets up to after hours. Have you considered for a moment that he might be behind the emails?’

‘Patrick?’ She stared at him dumbfounded then gave a small, strangled laugh. ‘Oh, he’s Tom, is he? Is that what you really think? Dr Patrick Kennedy, a well-respected forensic psychologist, just happens to be a psycho in his spare time. That’s a bloody laugh.’

‘Even if he isn’t Tom, he could still have written the emails. Ask yourself, why are you being targeted? What are the emails designed to do? The writer wants to shake you up, make you feel vulnerable. Maybe it is Tom. But maybe it’s somebody else, trying to use the situation to try and get closer to you. That’s what Kennedy wants, isn’t it?’

‘Is that true, Carolyn?’ Cornish asked.

She was shaking her head slowly in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe he’d do such a horrible thing.’

‘The emails were written by somebody who knows the details of the case,’ Tartaglia added, meeting her eye. ‘Somebody who also thinks he knows you and understands how to get to you. Who better than Dr Kennedy, with all his psychological insight?’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ she said, almost gasping.

Cornish rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I agree it sounds a little far-fetched. But Dr Kennedy’s certainly familiar with the emails that Tom sent the other girls.’

‘Yes,’ Tartaglia said. ‘And he’s more than clever enough to fake his style.’

Cornish nodded. ‘And of course, there have been other hoaxes before. Just think of the Yorkshire Ripper.’

Steele said nothing, as if she didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Coming back to this morning’s email,’ Tartaglia said. ‘He talks about watching you while you were asleep. The night before last, Dave saw Dr Kennedy peering through a gap in your bedroom curtains. Your light was on at the time, according to Dave. Now I don’t know what Dr Kennedy might see if he did that but you can picture it. Perhaps Dr Kennedy also watched you when you were asleep.’

‘If it’s true, I’ll string him up myself,’ Steele said quietly. She closed her eyes momentarily and gave a deep sigh, as if it was all too much for her. Then she bent down and searched in her handbag for a tissue, blowing her nose loudly. Her eyes were red and Tartaglia could see that she was close to tears.

Tartaglia turned to Cornish. ‘What are we going to do, sir?’

‘It’s awkward. Dr Kennedy’s a very well-respected academic. It’s hard to believe that someone like him would have sent the emails.’

‘I agree. But he’s definitely been peeping. Perhaps we should get him in for questioning.’

‘He’ll deny it,’ Steele said, looking up at Tartaglia. ‘He’ll just say he had my welfare at heart, just like you.’ Her tone was bitter. But she was right. Even if confronted with what they had seen outside Steele’s flat, Kennedy would laugh it all away. They hadn’t yet sufficient grounds for a warrant to search his home and take away his computer to see if he had actually sent the emails.

‘But we have to do something, sir,’ Tartaglia said, turning to Cornish. Sensing his hesitation, Tartaglia added: ‘I don’t believe that Kennedy is Tom. But he’s definitely been up to no good and I still think he could have sent the emails. If we do nothing, it could backfire on us badly.’

Cornish folded his arms and appeared to consider the matter, no doubt picturing how he might end up with egg on his face. ‘You’re right, Mark,’ he said, after a moment. ‘We have to do something. We’d better run a background check on Dr Kennedy, see if he’s done anything like this before. And I want a proper external surveillance team on Carolyn’s flat for the next few nights, with cameras and a full alarm system with a panic button. After this last email, it’s the only thing to do if Carolyn wants to stay there. I’ll go and get it sorted right away.’

As soon as Cornish had left the room, Steele stood up slowly and walked over to where Tartaglia was standing. She was trembling and her knuckles were white as she clenched her fists at her side. For a second he thought she was going to slap him.

‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? Didn’t you trust me?’

‘If I’d come to you and told you what I’d seen that first night, you would never have believed me.’

‘But what made you go there in the first place?’

Tartaglia hesitated. How was he to explain the impulse that had led him to her flat? He had been angry and he had wanted to catch her and Kennedy out. It now seemed a nasty, shabby thing to have done, even in the light of what he had discovered. But she was right. He didn’t trust her, certainly not enough to tell her the truth now. ‘I had a suspicion. Nothing more than that.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘One of your famous hunches, I suppose?’

‘It’s a good thing I did follow it up,’ he said, ignoring the sarcasm in her voice.

‘Maybe, but you should have told me first.’

‘I needed further proof. That’s why I involved Dave and Nick.’ He gazed at her angry, pale face for a moment then added: ‘There was no point in coming to you. You’re blind as far as Dr Kennedy is concerned.’

He saw the words hit home. ‘Perhaps I have been blind,’ she said, after a moment. ‘But as your superior, I find your behaviour inexcusable.’

He realised that on top of everything that had happened to her, he had humiliated her and he felt deeply sorry. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you and I wish that this all hadn’t had to come out in front of Superintendent Cornish. But you must understand that I couldn’t keep quiet after seeing that email.’

She walked over to the door and held it open. ‘Please go now. I want to be on my own.’

*

It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Gary Jones rolled into the small office he shared with Tartaglia. He’d been out at the Old Bailey all morning, where he had been called as a witness in an old case. Slapping down a wadge of papers in front of his computer, he sidled over to where Tartaglia was sitting, pushed aside some files and a stack of new CDs that had just arrived from Amazon in the morning post, and eased his broad girth onto a corner of the desk.

‘How’d it go?’ Tartaglia said, chewing on the last mouthful of avocado and bacon ciabatta sandwich he’d bought from the deli down the road and wiping his fingers on a paper napkin.

Jones stretched his short arms up in the air and yawned. ‘I wasn’t needed after all. The arsehole’s changed his plea to guilty.’

‘Wish they were all as easy.’

‘Hear you’ve got Cornish on the warpath about Dr Kennedy. Do you think Steele’ll press charges?’